


For Another Day

by TriscuitsandSoup



Series: Questions [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter Hale, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Murder, Banshee Lydia Martin, Beta Derek Hale, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Child Abuse, Child Abuse, Dark, Dead Sheriff Stilinski, Good Peter Hale, Gun Violence, M/M, Mentioned Allison Argent, Minor Lydia Martin/Jackson Whittemore, Murder, No Scott McCall, Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Pre-Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall does not exist, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Story Driven, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 08:25:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 46,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10850184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriscuitsandSoup/pseuds/TriscuitsandSoup
Summary: Peter and Chris made it their mission to keep Beacon Hills safe from those who would threaten it. They never thought that threat would come in the form of a seventeen-year-old boy.





	1. Chapter 1

To the weary souls out late enough to appreciate it, the lone diner standing on a backwoods road, nestled in the middle of a dense forest was a beloved source of comfort and warmth. It was visited by few but loved by all who had the good fortune of being safely tucked behind its four walls at one point or another. There were no signs off the main road indicating the turn onto the narrow dirt trail and not even enough space for more than a few cars to park themselves between the trees, not that many who visited the establishment often arrived by car. The patrons themselves were seldom attached to bodies at all, driven towards it by the sheer desire to be surrounded by others like them where they would be neither feared nor hunted. 

The inside was home to several dozen old vinyl booths, a jukebox that never worked, and checkerboard floors. A red, flickering sign in the window read ‘ _Tuesday’s_ ’ in cursive lettering. Most diners held a decent amount of wear and tear, but Tuesday’s was a bit more severe than most. Several irreparably claw marks lined the far wall, the welcome mat had a small burn the shape of two feet in the middle, and there was always a dull 'hiss' coming from somewhere in the back rooms. Chris avoided the bathroom like a plague. The only time he'd been brave enough to venture near he heard a sound that made his blood curdle that he dared not dwell on. 

He nodded at the red-haired hostess as he stepped inside the building, though she was too busy looking at her cell phone to notice. He made his way to the usual booth in the far back. Some of the other patrons turned to look at him as he passed. His humanity stuck out like a sore thumb though he felt comfortable enough in the knowledge that he wouldn't be approached. They didn't ask what a human was doing in their unnatural abode, sporting an electrified rod in one arm and a stack of newspapers under the other, and he didn't ask why the 'steaks' were served raw. The wendigo in the corner didn't seem to mind as he held the meat in both hands and nibbled at the bone like a dog. 

He slid into his booth and set the rod beside him on the seat where he could still grab it in a rush if he needed too. He didn't expect any trouble but his hunter brain wouldn't allow him to leave it behind, especially not in a place like Tuesday's. 

It took the hostess hardly more than a minute to realize there was an extra person sitting in the booths. She smiled at him as if they were good friends and disappeared back into the kitchen. She didn't need to ask his orders, Chris was habitual enough that she'd had it memorized after his first three visits. She returned a scant few minutes later holding two steaming mugs of coffee. The first was black as night, the second a pale beige. 

“Evening, Chris,” she said cheerily as she set down the mugs. The name on her badge read 'Lydia,' with a drawn-on heart dotting the 'I'. “You think he'll make it tonight?” 

Chris pulled the darker cup towards him and pushed the beige one to the side. He couldn't help but notice Lydia's anxious glances towards the door. It wasn't like her to be so eager for Peter to appear. 

“I don't know,” Chris said. “He's been anxious ever since the eclipse. If he doesn’t show up by dawn I’m leaving him.” 

“I'll cross my fingers for you,” Lydia said with a small wink and an upturn of her painted lips.

As soon as she walked away Chris got to work unfolding the newspapers and laying them out in their proper order. He had them sorted chronologically by city, then by relevance. As always, the 'Beacon Hills' stack was the largest. 

It was easy to get lost in his papers while he passed time in the diner. There wasn't much sound inside the quiet place, save for the clinking of forks and the _drip-drip-drip_ that came from a small, ghoulish woman leaning over the bar. Every single time she was there, immovable. She'd stay for hours and still be just as wet and dripping as the second the Diner opened. She didn't eat or drink. In fact, she wasn't even really sitting. Her ghostly body hovered an inch above the stool, her dirty feet hanging just as lifeless and limp as the hair that cascaded down her back in tangled wet spirals.

Sometimes, while Chris waited for Peter he started to wonder if she had ever moved from that spot at all. She sat there exactly as unmoving as the first night Chris entered the with a wolfed-out Peter leading the way. 

They researched her for a while, studied her silent, statuesque pose. He waited until closing time to see where she would go but Lydia kicked them out before they could see. Peter couldn't scent anything on her, not the dirt, not the water, not the mud caked on her feet or the blood on her forehead.

Chris turned back to the newspapers and away from the woman. He had more pressing matters to deal with and until some evidence appeared that she was an actual threat, there was no reason for him to expend his precious time trying to figure her out. 

The task of carefully sorting through three months obituaries from four different counties was tedious to say the least. He could have done it faster on the computer but he preferred to do things the traditional way, and it gave him something to focus on while Peter was enjoying his full moon run through the woods. He circled anything of interest and discarded the papers he deemed irrelevant. Soon, his stacks started to dwindle.

The little bell over the front door rang out in a clear, musical chirp. Chris looked up from his papers just in time to see a familiar face stepping inside. 

Peter's clothes were clean but his hair was dirty and like the women at the counter, he wore no shoes to cover his muddied feet. His nails were still clawed and tipped with black. His eyes glowed with an unnatural, predatory tint, the perfect definition of a werewolf struggling, or unwilling to control their shift; sans all the gore and guts. 

Lydia looked up from her cellphone and smiled. “Nice to see you again, Peter,” she said politely, unperturbed by his muddied appearance. “Chris in the usual spot.” 

“Lydia,” Peter greeted curtly. He ceased his dark looks long enough to give her a somewhat charming, if a little forced smile. As he did his shoulders relaxed and the clawed ends of his nails retracted bit by bit. 

“Peter. Would you like me to bring you anything?” she asked only as a courtesy, knowing his order already as well. 

“The same as usual,” he said. “Actually,” he looked down at feet. They made little squelching noises as they shifted around on the welcome mat, “perhaps a towel, as well?” 

“One towel it is then,” Lydia said as she produced a white hand towel from behind the counter. 

Peter took it graciously and wiped away the grime caking his feet. He handed it back to her dripping and brown. 

“Men,” Lydia tutted before she disappeared into the kitchen with a flip of her strawberry blonde hair. A faint blue-green glow emitted from behind the door as it opened for a few brief seconds. Nobody ever asked what it was, or at least nobody who wanted to leave. 

Peter's eyes made contact with Chris's. His smile became a little more genuine. He made his way with the sluggish stride of a well-fed house cat to their usual booth in the back. 

“I didn't think you'd be finishing up so soon,” Chris said. From what he could see through the door it was still dark outside. He moved his legs back as Peter slid into the space across from him. “Did you have fun chasing your deer?” 

“I wasn't chasing a deer,” Peter said with mild offense in his tone.

“Oh no?” Chris raised a brow. “What then?” 

“Something you don't need to worry about,” said Peter. “Not anymore anyways,” his eyes flashed with a mischievous gleam. He smirked and reached across the table for the cup of coffee that had been left untouched just for him. He took a sip and crinkled his nose. “It's _cold_ ,” he complained.

“You should have been here when it was warm.”

“I would have,” Peter said, setting his mug back down on the table, “but the thing had friends. It took a while for me to hunt them all down. Nasty things, too.” He set his cup down and examined the tips of his claws. “Bastards nearly bit my hand off.” 

“Did you need to catch them all?” 

“I only have so much self-control, Christopher,” Peter said. “You're lucky I didn't stay out all night hunting for their burrow.” 

“Self-control?” Chris repeated. “I've never seen you show any.”

“Shuttup.” Nevertheless, he leaned across the table and planted a soft kiss against his lips. His mouth tasted like copper and river water. At least it wasn't raw deer, Chris could handle a bit of river water if it meant he was spared the taste of raw meat from questionable origins. At least this time Peter had been courteous enough to wash the blood from his mouth and change into some clean clothes. He closed his eyes and let himself feel the shape of Peter’s lips against his own. His wolf was always a little rough after the full moon, but Chris found he didn’t mind. 

A cough forced them to separate.

Lydia looked down at them with two pie plates in her hands. “We have many patrons here,” she said, motioning with her head towards the creatures at the bar. “If you want to put on a show I suggest you find a more appropriate venue.” Her wink told them that she didn't mind their activities half as much as her tone suggested. 

“Apologies,” said Chris, hiding his smile. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and picked up his fork. He tried to draw his free hand back to his side, but Peter growled possessively and pulled his hand back to the middle of the table where their fingers could entwine.

“Enjoy your pie,” Lydia said, setting the plates down in front of them. Cherry for Peter and apple for Chris. Peter was already digging into his desert before she even had the chance to walk away. 

“Not get enough corpse?” Chris asked, eyeing the bright red filling as it spilled out over the plate, leaving behind a red smear. The cherries toppled out from the flesh-colored crust like little pieces of gore. 

Peter grunted. “It's only three in the morning. I could have more.”

“The moon's still full. You could go back out if you wanted. Maybe catch a few more 'things'?”

Peter paused with his fork half-raised. He looked out through the large glass window. In the woods the trees rustled, beckoning and dark. The very tips were beginning to lighten with the promise of the approaching dawn. “I'd rather be with you,” he said quietly. “Prey can wait.” 

“How sweet,” Chris smirked. He took another sip from his mug and dug his fork into his own pie. 

“Don't get big-headed,” said Peter, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “It'll fall off your shoulders. What were you reading about?” he asked, jabbing at the paper with his fork. 

Chris slid it over to Peter's side of the table as he took his first bite. 

“She's the seventh person to die in her sleep in the past six months,” he said as he motioned to the picture on the page with his fork. 

Peter leaned a little closer to the paper. He furrowed his brows ad shoveled another forkful into his mouth. 

“So?” he asked. “People die all the time in their sleep.” 

“Not when they're seventeen, they don't.”

Peter raised a brow. “You think it's some kind of sandman?”

“Sandmen don't usually kill their victims. It could be but I doubt it. I'd put money on a dream demon or a restless spirit with a grudge.” 

“Did you check the fun-” Peter cut himself off. His nostrils flared. His eyes darkened and for a few brief moments they shone red. A low rumble came from his throat. 

Chris stiffened. He didn’t like the predatory look that crossed Peter’s face. His fingers twitched for his taser. He let his hand slide down the seat to where the handle rested. 

Peter turned. The tips of his ears sprouted just a few more hairs than normal. He kept his eyes trained on the door. 

The bell chimed. The door opened. 

Peter stiffened. 

Chris gripped the tazer firmly, more than ready to use it if needed. 

The young man who entered couldn’t have been older than his teens. His hair was as dark as his heavily shadowed eyes. He wore a striped hooded sweatshirt over a pair of jeans and held a cell phone and a set of keys in one hand. His face was lightly speckled with moles that stood out even at a distance against his pale, sallow skin. He looked like a walking corpse which was only helped by the fact that he was surrounded by _flies._ A few rested on his shoulders but most buzzed around his head in spiral patterns, making him look like he was covered in static. His eyes were big and brown but there was no life in them. They were like two black pebbles, devoid of emotion and care. If possible he was even paler than the ghostly woman at the counter.

Peter growled again, this time louder. His shoulders hunched when the figure moved closer to them, to the podium where Lydia stood, eyes glued to her cell phone. 

_He's not a wolf_ thought Chris. _He doesn't look like a wendigo either, too listless._ In all the time visiting the diner Peter had never reacted with such hostility, not even to rival alphas. 

“What does he smell like?” Chris asked. 

It took a moment for Peter to respond. “Death,” he spat, “and rot.” 

“Some kind of spirit?” Chris asked. “Is he dead?” 

“There’s something wrong with him.” Peter dug his claws into the table. They made an awful sound as his nails raked against the marble surface. “He’s not natural.” 

Before Chris could ask what he meant Lydia looked up. Her eyes widened. 

“Stiles!” she said warmly. She dropped her cellphone onto the podium and threw her arms around the young man, disturbing many of the flies. “I'm so happy you came.” 

The 'Stiles' in turn wrapped his arms around her waist and hugged back tightly. His eyes softened up just a bit. 

His lips moved but his words were too quiet for Chris to catch. 

“What is he saying?” 

“'People are staring at me,'” Peter repeated.

For a moment, Chris assumed the thing was talking about him, but his eyes weren’t the only ones trained on the creature. The witches abandoned their game of cards, the wendigo lifted his head, even the ghoul woman who had never moved before was clenching her feet tight, drawing her toes inward. Everyone was watching him. 

“Don't mind them,” Lydia said quietly. She reached up and patted the Stiles’s face. “Let's find you a seat on the other side of the diner, hm?” She stroked his cheek for a second, then pulled away. She put her arm around his shoulders and led him towards the booths. 

Like a puppy he followed her all the way to the bar area, directly across from where Peter and Chris sat. Out of hearing range for a human, but not for a werewolf. He felt a ‘crackle’ in the air right as the thing passed. He’d heard once that the atmosphere changed just before a lightning strike.

“That her boyfriend?” Peter asked with unconcealed derision in his voice. 

“Not her type,” said Chris. 

He watched the teen's movements closely; he hardly blinked. He was stiff but not in the same way a ghost inhabiting someone else's body was. He wasn't jerky or twitching, his steps were fluid and natural but he held himself close together. It was almost too perfect, a simulation of a human instead of a living breathing creature. As Peter had said, there was something wrong with him. 

As the teen passed Peter bared his fangs. Neither Lydia nor the boy paid him any mind. As soon as they were several feet away Peter pushed his plate away, his pie only half-eaten. “I’m not hungry anymore,” he said.

Lydia seated Stiles at the bar. She patted him on the shoulder and whispered something quietly into his ear. The man tilted his head but showed no signs of accepting or rejecting her words. He plucked a fork from the napkin and idly scratched at the marble counter with it. The flies that had been displaced by Lydia’s hug returned to his shoulders. 

The wendigo who'd been eating his steak at the very same counter crinkled his nose in disgust and pushed the bloody meat away. He licked a droplet of blood from his lips and retracted his teeth. The teen didn’t seem to notice him at all. 

“I’ll bring you something to eat,” Lydia said, just loud enough that Chris had to strain to hear her. loud enough for him to hear. “You must be hungry.” 

The Stiles looked up. His dark eyes were somehow darker than before, like a dead dog’s. His pale lips formed a half smile. “We both are,” he said with grave inflection. 

Lydia smiled but the smile didn’t reach her eyes, it flickered uneasily. “I’ll bring you some pie,” she said. The smile fell from her face as soon as her back was turned to the creature. She kept her eyes trained on the floor as she passed by Chris and Peter’s table. 

“Lydia,” Chris said, but she ignored him. 

She went to her podium, wrote an order out in her notebook, and slipped into the kitchen. When she came back her eyes went immediately down to her phone. 

Peter cleared his throat. 

A curtain of red hair fell in front of her face, shielding it from the outside world. Her fingers tapped rapidly on the screen. 

Peter cleared his throat again. When he still got no reaction he snarled and banged on the table. 

Lydia looked over at them. Her perfectly trimmed brows angled downwards into a scowl. ‘What?’ she mouthed. 

Chris motioned towards the creature at the bar. ‘Outside,’ he mouthed back. 

She rolled her eyes and shook her head.

“Excuse me, miss! Could you please bring us the check?” Peter asked. He flashed her his most charming smile. 

The look Lydia gave him in return was harsher than any Medusa’s stare. She pursed her lips, typed a few numbers into the register, and then walked over to them, her hands gripping the slip of paper so tight her nails ripped straight through. 

“Here,” she said as she smacked it down on the table. “Thanks for coming.” 

“Tell me about your friend,” Chris said as she cleared away the plates. 

“No,” she said. “He’s none of your _business_.” She made a pointed look at the Taser lying on Chris’s seat. 

“I just want to ask you some questions, that’s all.” 

Lydia rolled her eyes. “Not now. I’ll call you after my shift ends and we can talk then, alright?” 

“Alright,” he agreed. 

Peter slid the receipt over to his side of the table and furrowed his brow. “We didn’t order any steaks.” 

“Yes, you did, and you’re tipping like you did,” Lydia said with a serious look. 

Peter sighed and pulled a few bills from his pocket. “Fine,” he said. “The price we pay to keep the world safe.”

⋯⊶⋯⊷⋯

The sun was just beginning to rise over the tree line just as Lydia scurried out of the diner, her coat wrapped around her tight as the early morning air brushed against her cheeks. It was only a few minutes after six and all the strange creatures had gone back into the woods or back to their daily lives.

She yanked open the door to her Prius and climbed inside. Her keys already clutched in her hand. She jammed them in and started the vehicle, but nothing happened. 

“Dammit,” she hissed. She turned the car off and tried again, but once more there wasn’t even a sound. 

Chris stepped out into the open. “Going somewhere, Ms. Martin?” he asked as he approached. 

Lydia glowered. She dropped her hands from the steering wheel but did not turn to look at him. Her cat-green eyes stared out the front of the car with a burning displeasure. 

“What did you do to my car?”

Chris held up the fuse for the fuel pump with a wry smile. “I hope you weren’t trying to avoid our conversation?” 

“No, I was trying to go home after a long day of work. You know, when most guys want to talk they just send a text message.” 

“This won’t take long. Mind if I join you?”

“You’re not going to give me my fuse back if I say ‘no’ are you?” she asked.

“I’m afraid not.” 

Lydia took a deep breath. “Get in.” 

Chris pulled open the car door and slid inside. It was well kept for a car belonging to a teenager. He’d always had to get after Allison for leaving her arrows in the backseat and forgetting to collect her jackets and sweaters from the passenger side. All of that felt like a distant memory. 

“What do you want?” she asked. Her eyes flickered over to his and the hand that held her fuse. “And give me that,” she snapped, holding her own palm out. 

Chris relinquished it without a fight. “Tell me about your friend.” 

Lydia rolled her eyes. “His name is Stiles and he’s in my chemistry class. What more is there to know?”

“I’ve been doing this for a long time, Lydia,” Chris said. “I know when someone’s hiding something. You know what Peter and I do for a living and you knew we would be here tonight.” He gave her a few seconds before continuing. He knew from experience that silence made people uncomfortable, and discomfort made them talk. “You wouldn’t have brought him here where we would be unless you wanted help.” 

Lydia’s shoulders softened. She turned in her seat towards him. “I just don’t want him getting hurt.” 

Chris arched a brow. “I don’t think you need to be concerned about something like him.” 

“He wasn’t always like that,” she said, a touch of defensiveness entering her tone. She crossed her arms over her chest and held her chin up high. He could see why Allison liked her so much, she was just as stubborn as her mother. “He was sweet. A little bit quirky, sure, but sweet.” 

“So what happened?” 

“Promise you won’t hurt him.” 

“I can’t promise that,” he said. “It’s too dangerous.” 

Lydia narrowed her eyes. “Then I’m not telling you a thing.” 

“Lydia, the last thing I want to do is hurt someone,” he said. “Allison’s told you our code before, hasn’t she? We protect those who can’t protect themselves. If he poses a threat to innocents I can’t just let him go.” He moved forward and put his hand on her shoulder. He squeezed lightly and looked at her. “Hurting him is only a last resort, _that_ I can promise.” 

Lydia blinked. She looked at the hand on her shoulder. “Okay,” she said. “But if I found out you did anything to him on purpose it’ll be your name I’m screaming next.” She looked up and pointed a warning finger in his direction. 

Chris let the smile return to his face. He moved back in his seat to give her some more space. “Deal. Now what can you tell me about your friend? Do you know what he is?” 

“I don’t know,” Lydia said, her red lips curving downwards. “He just … One day he came to school and he felt _weird_. His eyes were different, darker. He was acting fine but just …” she trailed off and looked to the side. 

“So he wasn’t always like that?” Chris asked, mentally logging away her every word. He couldn’t have been or Allison would have said something, but Stiles wasn’t like any creature he’d ever seen before. 

“No,” she shook her head. “His dad died. He was shot during a robbery at a liquor store.” 

“His dad? Was he a criminal?”

“No,” Lydia said. “He was the sheriff, before-”

“Sheriff Stilinski? That boy was his kid?” He’d met the sheriff a few times before, the man never took kindly to his open carry, or Peter’s house in the middle of the woods. He’d made his reservations known but so long as they didn’t bother him he left them alone well enough. In fact, if there was a case his officer’s couldn’t solve he never failed to let them know about it. 

Lydia nodded again. “Did you know him?” she asked. 

“I knew of him. So, Stiles turned into that thing after his father was shot?” 

“I’m not sure. He was out of school for about a month. He acted the same when he came back but you could just feel that something wasn’t right.” Lydia bit her lip and wrapped her coat tighter around herself. 

“Did he do anything unusual? Did he say anything strange?” Chris asked. 

“He was always strange, it’s hard to tell. He’s a lot more interested in riddles now,” for a moment her eyes grew distant. “The other day he asked me this weird one, it went like, ‘I can be found where nothing else can; dead men eat me all the time, but if a living man eats me, he'll die. What am I?’” 

“What was the answer?” 

“Nothing,” said Lydia. “Then he just started _smiling_ at me. It was creepy.” 

Chris frowned. It was a little strange outside of Halloween but it was still nothing to go on. 

“What about the bugs? When did they appear?”

Lydia grimaced. “Those are new. Ever since he came back to school I’ve seen one or two of them hanging around by his desk. Never that many before. If someone calls them gross he just stares.”

Chris nodded. “Thank you, Lydia. That’s very helpful. Is there anything else you can tell me?”

“Well …” she hesitated. 

“Go on,” Chris encouraged. “Anything is useful.”

“Whenever I’m around him I can’t help but take a deep breath. It’s like, I want to scream but I’m not ready yet.” She furrowed his brows. “It feels like … It feels like he’s dying.” Lydia stared out the car window with an unsettled look on her face. She shook or nodded her head to the questions Chris asked but offered no more words on the matter. 

It wasn’t long before a pair of headlights came creeping back up the dirt road. 

“Thank you for speaking with me, Lydia,” Chris said with a small tip of his head. He knew the nature of their discussion was compulsory, but she had been cooperative enough that courteously was still due. 

Lydia nodded silently and went to back to starring out the window. 

Chris exited the car and waved to Peter, who slid out of the front seat. 

“You’re driving,” Peter announced. His eyes were falling shut enough before the words came out of his mouth and Chris knew better than to argue with a surly, sleepy werewolf. 

“Fine,” he said. 

As Lydia drove away they both climbed into the Tahoe, Chris taking the driver’s side and Peter in the passenger’s. 

He gave a lingering look to the duffel bag in the back seat containing Peter’s bloody clothes. He knew the blood inside didn’t belong to any human but no matter how many years they spent together he could never quite get rid of the suspicion tingling in the back of his brain.

“We really should start charging people, you know,” Peter said as he slumped against his seat. His head fell to rest against the window glass. “No one should ever have to work without compensation.” 

“You’ll get paid in the knowledge that the people of Beacon Hills are safe,” Chris said with a small smile. 

“Oh joy. I hope I have enough ‘knowledge’ to buy some new clothes.” 

Chris chuckled. “Someone’s grumpy. We’ll be home soon and you can get some sleep.” 

“Just sleep?” Peter raised a brow. “Nothing more exciting?”

“Maybe,” Chris said. “We'll see how I feel when we get there. You definitely need a shower first.” He wrinkled his nose in emphasis.

Peter growled half-heartedly and slid down the seat like a lazy cat. He raised his arms above his head and stretched with a loud yawn.

“What do you think is going on with that kid?” he asked even as his eyelids struggled to stay open. “Possession?” 

Chris smiled a little. “I thought you didn't like to work without compensation? Those are investigation questions.”

“Questions for another day, then,” Peter said with a yawn.


	2. Chapter 2

_Bardo, the state between life and death._ Stiles Stilinski didn’t remember dying but he remembered coming back. It was like a hand reaching out and pulling him through a half-opened door. Air filled his empty lungs, his heart pounded painfully in his chest. Every breath was so intense and burning he held it for as long as possible, yet once he’d started he couldn’t stop. There was a mask over his face that forced air down into his lungs. He grasped and pulled at it. 

A searing pain engulfed his ribs. He felt the doctor’s scalpel as it slashed through tissue to get to the bullet still stuck inside of him. His vision clouded with white hot pain as he struggled and clawed to get away from the men and women in scrubs holding him down. There was shouting he couldn’t make out. All the while he kept gulping. He kept trying to force air back into his deprived lungs. The white hot lights burned at his retinas. 

Then the anesthesia took effect and he was cast abruptly back into a blissful lack of awareness. 

When he woke again, the nurses told him that he tried to get up six more times after that; four times on the operating table and twice in his room. His eyes were sometimes open during these attempts, but other times he just fumbled around like a zombie, his body twitching like a puppet without any strings. 

_You have a strong spirit,_ one of them said, unaware of how right she was.

As he lay recovering in that cold, empty room his thoughts were painted with pain and fear; the fear of losing his father, the pain of the bullet in his side, and the knowledge that there was something inside of him that hadn’t been there when his heart stopped. 

The presence was dark and silent, like deep waters deceptively still. Nothing moved on the surface but underneath something was swimming, something was living. He could feel the pulses in the waves of his mind as thoughts that weren’t his own leaked into his brain. 

At first, it was hardly noticeable but as the days turned into a week the presence grew until the trickle of foreign thoughts and feelings couldn’t be ignored. The vague emotions and ideas turned into words that Stiles could understand and respond to, and as he lay there wounded and unable to move the terror grew in his heart. 

One week and two days into his hospital stay he heard the voice for the first time. _'Stileeeeees.'_

He kept his eyes clenched tight. His wounds were recovering but the medicine made him nauseous and even water agitated his stomach. 

He tried blaming the medicines. They made his head swim and he lost all control of his racing heart. It had to be just the medicine. They didn’t mix well with his empty belly and drove him into a state somewhere between sleep and delirium. Hallucinations were a side effect. He didn’t know any painkillers that caused hallucinations, but maybe it was all normal. He could barely think. His own thoughts swam in dizzy, disjointed sentences. Hallucinations. That’s all it was. 

_'Stileeeeeees,'_ the voice said again. The whisper was right in his ear, he could almost feel a faint breathing beside him. His fingers twitched. 

_'Stileeeeees. Wake up.'_

“N-no,” he croaked out. He turned his head to the side and away from the breath. “Go ‘way.” 

_'Wake up, Stiles.'_ It was almost pleading now. Almost, but not quite. _'I don’t mean to hurt you,_ the voice said, more clear than Stiles’ own thoughts. _I just want to help you.'_

A quiet whine escaped Stiles’s throat. He dug his nails into his paper-thin blanket. He tried to sit up but his muscles were limp like jello at his sides. He only just managed to squint his eyes open. 

_'Sh, sh, sh,'_ the voice hushed. _'There’s no need to be alarmed.'_

“What are you?” Stiles asked through a scratched throat and cracked lips. He kept his voice as low as he could, not wanting the nurses to overhear his one-sided conversation. He shifted on the bed and another stab of pain went through his side. “What do you want?”

 _'I’m a spirit,'_ the voice said. _'I’ve lived in this hospital for hundreds of years. I want to help you. Let me help you.'_

“-Can’t help,” he muttered. “Dad’s dead.”

 _'You’ve been through a terrible tragedy.'_ A somber feeling spread throughout Stiles' body. _'I can’t fix what you’ve been through but I can help you get through it.'_

“Help how?” Stiles eyes started to drift shut. The more he spoke to the spirit the more he felt a weight pressing on his body. 

_'Let me show you,'_ the spirit said. _'Let me show you how I can help.'_ The breath ghosted over his ear, cold and close. It made him shiver. 

Stiles opened his mouth to respond but no words came. 

A cold hand pressed to his forehead and brushed back gently over his hair. _'I only want to help.'_

The pain that throbbed dully in Stiles’s side began to diminish. He blinked and his blurry vision started to clear. The voice went silent but it’s presence was still there like an eel concealed in muddy waters. 

A week later and Stiles was released from the hospital and into the custody of his new foster parents, Linda and David Whittemore.

⊶⋯⊷

The ground beneath Stiles’ feet was cold. He could feel the blades of grass poking up between his toes. The moonlight cast shadows in every corner that swayed and moved with the trees. He could hear the wind howling through the forest but it never touched his face. A cold, persistent chill ran through his bones. He looked at his hands and couldn’t count his fingers.

“Why did you bring me here?” Stiles asked. He couldn’t see anyone else in the area, just himself, the trees, and whispering leaves that swirled like little green tornados in the wind. He shuddered as he felt breath against his scalp. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. 

_'It’s a nice place to be,'_ answered a disembodied voice. It was dark, a guttural echo that fell into Stiles’s ears from somewhere close behind. _'Don’t you think so?'_

“It’s dark,” Stiles said. He drew his knees up to his chest and stared. For a second he thought he saw a lumbering figure between two great pines, but it was only a bush rustling with the breeze. 

_'Yes,'_ agreed the voice. _'But that doesn’t mean it’s bad.'_

Stiles' spine tingled as he felt something brush against his cheek. It was like a hand resting on the side of his face. It thumbed over his cheek and trailed down to the edge of his jaw in the same way his mother used too before she passed away. A cold chill went down Stiles’ spine. He imagined the cold hands of his deceased mother against his face, no matter how comforting the touch might have otherwise been 

_'It’s just me,'_ said the voice. 

“Why can’t I see you?” Stiles asked. The voice waited so long before responding Stiles thought he’d offended him. He swallowed down the apology thickening in his throat. 

_'… You wouldn’t like what you saw,'_ the voice answered. _'Trust me on that.'_

“Are you a monster?” Stiles breathed. 

_'No,'_ the voice said, both fond and chastising. _'Monsters don’t exist, Stiles.'_

“Monsters don’t exist, but spirits do?” He frowned and dug one of his many fingers into the ground, scratching a chicken scratch pattern along the dirt. 

_'Monsters are just things you don’t understand,'_ said the voice. _'Are you afraid of the dark, Stiles?'_

“I don’t-“ 

RRRRRrrrrzzzzz.

Stiles started and blinked. 

The voice behind him hissed at the interruption. _'Ignore it.'_

Even as the words reached Stiles’ ears his eyes started to focus. The trees and the dirt fell away from his vision. He clenched his eyes tight as the world swirled around him. When he opened them again the woods were completely left behind. The moon hanging in the sky overhead was the only constant between the world he’d been in and the one he stood in now. 

He whipped his head around to get his bearings. He was no longer on a rock in the middle of the forest, but standing beside a road illuminated by flickering, yellow street lamps and humming with insects hidden deep the grass. 

The ‘ _RRRrrrrrzz_ ,’ sound continued. A faint, blue-white glow emitted from his pocket. 

He fumbled for his cell phone. The number flashing on the screen was one that he’d known by heart since he was five, it was so familiar to him he never even bothered to put it in his contacts list. He instantly pressed the green button to accept the call. 

"Hello?" he choked out.

“Stiles,” Deputy Tara’s voice was warm on the other end of the line. “How have you been, sweetie?” 

“I’m,” Stiles struggled for words. He noticed he wasn’t wearing any shoes. “I’m … okay? Sort of. It’s good to hear your voice again. I thought-” He was blinded for a moment as a car appeared from around the bend and flashed its headlights in his direction. He had to scramble back to avoid being hit by the vehicle as it sped past, the car’s owner honking twice as it sped onwards. 

“Was that a car?” Tara’s voice went from friendly to concern in a flash. “Where are you? Do you need me to pick you up?” 

“No,” Stiles breathed. He noticed as he felt the cool concrete beneath his toes that he wasn’t wearing any shoes. “No, I’m fine. I’m just taking a walk,” he held the phone away from his ear for a few seconds to take a couple of gasping breaths. “Was there something you wanted?” He tucked his arms underneath his shirt to keep the cold away.

Tara held a solemn silence for just a second, but it was long enough that Stiles knew he’d soon be hearing bad news. “I hate bothering you so late in the evening hun, you know how bad police shifts can get but I - I can’t hold them off any longer, baby. The county’s going to elect a new sheriff soon and your father’s things are going to-“ 

“Thanks,” Stiles said. His stomach knotted tighter. The emptiness of his belly was ever more apparent as the feelings in his chest made him want to throw up. “For holding them for me as long as you could. I’ll come pick them up as soon as I can.” 

“I know you will, sweetie,” she said again. “I could drop them off for you, if you’d like?” 

“No,” said Stiles. “I-I want to see his office one last time. I think – I think I have to. Can I come by this afternoon? Will you be there?” He started walking towards the corner, not knowing which direction he had come from.

“I’ll be here,” she promised. “I don’t mean to pressure you but they’re coming tomorrow. If you’re not here by then I’ll get what I can for you, okay?” 

“Th-thanks, Tara,” Stiles said. 

“You sure you’re doing all right? The Whittemore’s treating you well?” 

“I miss my dad,” he admitted. “It’s strange not-“ 

_'Be careful,'_ the voice hissed. 

Stiles winced as a pain shot through his foot. “Ouch,” he yelped. 

“Sweetie? You okay?” 

“Yeah, yeah, fine,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Can I call you back?” 

“Of course, you call me as much as you’d like.” 

“Thank you, bye.” He hung up the phone, stuck it back in his pocket, and then sat on his ass. He held his foot tenderly and looked at the underside where a small stone jabbed into his heel. He hissed and yanked it out. A small droplet of red oozed from the open wound. 

“Ow. Goddammit. That fucking hurt like hell.” He put his thumb over the wound to stop the bleeding. 

_'Let me take care of that,'_ the spirit said. 

For a second Stiles vision blurred, when his eyes refocused again the wound had completely dissipated. The pain in his foot vanished. “Thanks,” he said. “Now mind telling me what I’m doing out here in the middle of the night?” 

_'It’s only ten,'_ said the spirit. _'You crashed in your room after practice and started sleepwalking.'_ The voice that had been so loud during his dream was reduced to just a shadow of a thought in his mind. He could understand the words the creature whispered to him, but they were so quiet, almost inaudible. _'I didn’t want to startle you awake, and if anything had happened I would have protected you.'_

“I almost got hit by a car,” he said. 

_'No, you wouldn’t have been hit. It might have been close but you wouldn’t have been hit.'_

“Geez thanks, that’s so reassuring.” 

After a few moments, the spirit asked, _'do you want me to leave you?'_

Stiles stomach knotted. “No,” he said. 

_'I’m trying to protect you.'_

“I know.” 

'I only want to help you.'

 _“I know,”_ he said. 

_'Good,'_ said the spirit. _'Then trust me. Let me take you back home.'_

“Okay,” Stiles relented. His feet were pounding, not from the rock but from walking for however long he’d been out. It wasn’t as if he knew where he was, either. “Thanks,” he said. 

_'Of course, Stiles,'_ purred the spirit. _'I’m here to protect you.'_

His vision blurred as the spirit flooded into the forefront of his mind. He clung to the barest threads of his lucidity, just enough to see the trees and feel the pavement beneath his feet as they walked along the quiet road back towards the Whittemore Estate. It was just so much easier to let him in, let him deal with the funeral arrangements, let him deal with the broken body, the pain of having been shot. He didn’t have his father anymore, but he had the spirit. He let himself float easily in the back of his mind, unperturbed by anything around him. 

The walk felt longer than it should have but when he finally felt his body climb into bed he decided it didn’t really matter. He fell asleep soon thereafter.

In the morning. the loud noise of Jackson banging on his bedroom door woke him. “Breakfast’s ready!” Jackson shouted. 

Stiles reluctantly peeled himself from the sheets. He honestly doubted Jackson would care if he stayed in his room all throughout breakfast, but he didn’t want to have another conversation with Mr. ‘call me David’ Whittemore about getting ‘professional help.’ David could bring him as many brochures for expensive treatment facilities he wanted, he still wasn’t going. 

The thought crossed his mind once or twice that perhaps he did need professional help. He had started hearing voices after all, but the thought of being alone in his mind was more terrifying than the idea that he might be crazy. 

He dragged himself up from the bed. He was still wearing the jacket he’d been wearing the day before. He shed it in favor of a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, only bothering to run a comb through his hair a couple of times. His room at the Whittemore estate was large, well-furnished, and cluttered with boxes of things Stiles had yet to unpack. A part of him didn’t want to. Unpacking meant he wouldn’t be going home, back to his real home. His bed was warm and soft but it wasn’t comforting. His foster family had given him a large screen television but he had no interest in watching it. They even offered to fix all the little kinks in his jeep but the kinks were his own and he wouldn’t let them go so easily. 

He stared at his reflection in the mirror on the dresser for a long moment. He supposed David and Linda were unaware that not every teen was as vain as their own. The dark circles underneath his eyes stayed no matter how much sleep he’d gotten. Sometimes he’d even wake up feeling out of breath and sore all over. 

He rubbed his eyes, fixed his hair a little more with his fingers, and went down the stairs to join his ‘foster family’ for breakfast. As he descended the steps the warm, tempting smell of eggs and bacon wafted up to him. He could even hear the crackling of bacon as it sizzled in the pain. His stomach let out a needy growl. 

Jackson was already seated at the unnecessarily long dining table. He chewed on a piece of bacon and reached for another before he’d finished with the first. On one end of the table David drank his coffee with his laptop and a newspaper out in front of him. Instead of eggs and bacon he ate a salad that had been meticulously prepared by Linda the night before. Linda stood at the stove, sliding the last few pieces of bacon onto a plate with a generous helping of eggs. 

Stiles hovered in the doorway, just watching the family as they went about their routine. Their efforts to make him feel ‘at home’ only made him feel more distant. He considered slipping out through the door and getting into his jeep before anyone could stop him. Unfortunately, Linda spotted him before he could put his thoughts into action. 

“Stiles,” she said with a brilliant smile, her bright blue eyes meeting his. “Come join us. Come on. Don’t be shy.” She beckoned with her hand for him to join them at the table and Stiles didn’t have the energy to refuse. 

Stiles reached out with his mind for the presence of the spirit. The spirit didn’t speak to him but it’s presence was there and for now that was enough for him to step further into the kitchen. 

“Morning,” he mumbled as he slid down into the seat across from Jackson. Linda set the overflowing plate down in front of him and for a few brief seconds gave his shoulder a light squeeze. His stomach growled traitorously as he looked down at his breakfast, despite his strong will his mouth started to water as well. 

“Do you want any toast?” she asked. “We have sausage too. I have turkey and pork. There’s also waffles. I didn’t get a chance to ask what you wanted last night.” 

Stiles smiled weakly at her. “Thanks, but I don’t want turn your house into a diner. This is more than enough.” 

“Well you just let me know if you change your mind, okay? I don’t let anybody go underfed in this house.” She swept back a lock of her golden blonde hair and pointed her spatula at him in friendly warning. 

Stiles nodded. “Yes ma’am,” he said. He picked up his fork and shoveled a forkful of eggs into his mouth. It wasn’t bad. Nothing like his own mother’s cooking had been, but it wasn’t bad. 

During his brief time at the Whittemore estate Stiles had come to realize that Jackson’s ‘friends’ were more inclined to stay the night due to his mother’s hospitality rather than an actual joy at being in the presence of Jackson. Only Danny or Lydia ever stayed longer than midnight and Lydia would be out the window by morning. It almost made him feel bad but the look Jackson gave him from across the table made him second guess himself.

Jackson glared at him with a deep hatred burning in his eyes. His aggressive and loud chewing was likely supposed to be threatening, but in the overly posh and welcoming décor of the dining room it just looked like he’d forgotten how to chew. If Linda or David noticed it they chose not to say anything. 

He listened to the Whittemore’s talk about their day as if nothing in the world bothered them. Linda Whittemore was a project manager, which if possible was even more boring than a lawyer in terms of conversational value. Still, he praised her for her cooking and smiled at the appropriate points in conversation. In truth, he would have preferred his dad's too-fat bacon slices, but he would have preferred anything coming from his father. 

Sitting there, listening to the Whittemore’s talk about their lives, continue with their same old routine, he finally understood what people meant when they said ‘alone in a crowded room.’ A small little fly creeping along his sleeve reminded him that he really wasn’t. 

Stiles' arm shot up suddenly. He grasped Jackson’s wrist tight where it hung, half-raised in the air, prepared to strike out at the fly on his sleeve. His eyes narrowed unwillingly. “Don’t,” he said with a guttural inflection. 

Jackson’s eyes went wide.

As Linda and David looked over Jackson yanked his arm away and scooted his chair back. 

“I’m done with breakfast,” he announced, standing up without another word or a backward glance to his family. He stomped out of the room, his feet making an unnecessary amount of noise as they crossed the hardwood floors. The front door opened and slammed shut. 

Linda and David watched him with small frowns on their faces. 

“Everything all right?” David asked. 

Stiles waited for an explanation to escape his lips but it never came. When he realized the spirit had no intention of coming to his aid he shrugged and muttered into his food that soon he would be late for school. 

The Whittemore parents didn’t try to stop him as he dumped the contents of his plate in the trash and headed out the door. 

“Where were you back there?” Stiles asked as he climbed into his jeep. The spirit didn’t respond. Within his chest, Stiles could feel the waves of the spirit’s own consciousness rolling tumultuously. “Are you okay?” 

_'I’m fine,'_ said the spirit after a few seconds. _'I just hate the idea of one of them hurting you.'_ Then he drifted back into the small part of Stiles’s mind.

⋯⊶⋯⊷⋯

Chris no longer woke up in the morning, a side effect of marrying a creature that thrived on moonlight and lazy afternoons. Still, he preferred to start his days – no matter how late they may be – with the warm, bitter scent of freshly ground coffee and a phone call to his favorite and only child.

It didn’t take long to find Allison’s name in his phone, she was always amongst the last three calls he made. Her voice came through on the second ring. 

“-Ello?” she asked from the other end of the line. “Dad, it’s almost eight o’clock.” 

Chris chuckled. “Well, it’s two in the afternoon here.” He leaned back against the counter and folded an arm over his chest. “How are you?” 

“Oh … Right,” she said. He knew then her eyes would be widening slightly with the realization. “I’m good. Mom and I went to the shooting range today.” 

“Oh, yeah?” he asked. “How’d that go?” 

Allison was quiet for a minute. “She’s not as good as you,” she said in a half-whisper. He could imagine Victoria was nearby. Even if she weren’t the woman had ears like a cat and the willingness to strike like one as well. 

“We’ll just have to catch up over the summer,” he promised. “How’s France?” 

“Different, but I like it here. Everyone’s really nice and the coffee’s great. Peter would love it.” 

“I’m sure he would. Maybe we’ll all go together sometime, just …” 

“Not while mom’s in the country?” 

“Not while we’re so busy,” he sighed. Although, if he were being honest he wasn’t too keen on being anywhere near Victoria. “I actually had some questions for you. What do you know about a ‘Stiles’ Stilinski?” 

“Stiles?” Allison repeated. “Not much. He was more Lydia’s friend than mine and he wasn’t really hers either.” 

“Who did he get along with?” 

“He and Danny were close for a while back in middle school I think. He played on the lacrosse team but Jackson didn’t like him so I don’t think he hung out with them much. Why? Is he in trouble?” 

“No,” said Chris. “I heard about what happened with his father.” 

“Oh,” Allison said sadly. “I was sad to hear about that too. I hope Stiles is okay. They were really close.” 

“I hope so too. I know he was put into foster care. Didn’t he have any friends who could have taken him?” 

“He didn’t keep to himself or anything, he just sort of … floated. I should send him a text or something.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea right now, Allie.” 

“Why?” Allison asked. “Is something going on with him? You don’t think his dad’s death was supernatural, do you?”

It was moments like these when Chris almost regretted telling Allison about the supernatural. It had been one of his and Victoria’s biggest arguments and sometimes he hated to think she might have been right, but when her best friend was a Banshee and the town was an epicenter of supernatural crossroads he didn’t feel right leaving her in the dark. The world was scary, but he would rather have her prepared for it than not. If only she weren’t so quick to assume. 

“No,” said Chris as reassuringly as he could. “I think everything’s fine, but I just wanted to double check. It’s not every day the sheriff gets shot.”

“The article Lydia sent me said it was just a robbery gone wrong.” 

“What robber breaks into the sheriff’s home?” 

“A stupid one,” Allison said. 

“Or a vengeful one. If you-“ 

“ _Allison!_ What are you doing up there?” Victoria’s static voice cut through the phone like a knife. 

“I’m talking to dad!” Allison shouted back. 

“Well tell him it’s time for dinner!” 

“We just-,” Allison started. Then she cut herself off. There were a few moments of awkward silence from both sides. “I, uhm-” 

“I should let you go,” Chris said. “Peter and I have a lot of errands to run today. You get some rest, okay sweetheart?”

“Okay, g’night dad,” Allison said. “Love you.” 

“I love you too, sweetheart,” Chris said before hanging up the phone and sticking it back in his pocket. His heart hurt a little each time he pressed the little red button to end the call. The house was certainly a lot quieter without her, but soon the summer would end and he could have his daughter back. He only hoped she wasn’t too tainted by her mother’s backward ideologies. The last thing he needed was one more person trying to stick daggers in Peter’s back when he wasn’t looking. 

He pocketed his phone and poured his finished coffee into the little camouflage thermos Allison had given him for Christmas one year. Underneath a black crossbow were the words ‘world’s best hunter.’ The tag on the wrapping paper only had Allie’s name on it, but the self-satisfied smirk on Peter’s face told him it was a joint effort. 

He walked into the bedroom and rapt lightly on the doorframe. 

Peter lay where he’d fallen asleep the night before, still half-drunk off his full-moon daze with his face pressed into the pillow and his naked back on full display. His ears were still a little furry. 

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Chris said. He leaned over Peter’s prone form and planted a soft kiss on his slightly parted lips. 

Peter grumbled and furrowed his brow. He blinked open his bleary eyes. “whatta you want?” 

“Time to get up, sweetheart.” 

Peter growled. He hunched his shoulders and curled up tighter into himself. 

“I made coffee,” Chris tempted, knowing it would end in failure. 

Peter rolled onto his back and gave Chris a sleepy-eyed glare. “I’d rather dehydrate than drink any of that swill water. Go on without me.” That stupid, sleepy look in his eyes was enough to make anyone forget he spent his free time butchering Beacon Hills wildlife and chasing errant omegas out of their territory. It was hard to believe there had ever been a time when Chris was afraid of him. 

“I’ll drive you to that expensive shop on Fifth Street, the one with the snooty barista’s you like so much?” 

“I do like snooty barista’s,” Peter mused, “but I like sleep even more. You should join me,” he looked up at Chris with a lopsided smirk. 

“If you’re not up by the time I finish my coffee then I’m leaving without you.” 

“A whole day to myself? Don’t threaten me with a good time, sweetheart.” Still, Peter raised his arms above his head and yawned. 

Chris chuckled. He brushed some lingering hairs from Peter’s forehead and leaned down to kiss him again. 

The werewolf growled his approval and pushed himself up onto his elbows. One of his arms slung around Chris’s shoulders to bring him in for a deeper kiss. 

Chris pulled away just slightly to mutter against his lips, “a whole day without me means you can’t have my body either.” 

Peter sighed and pushed him. He rubbed the sleep from his tired blue eyes. He was so pretty in the morning when his sass was only half-hearted and the claws retracted. “Now that would be terrible,” Peter said. “Fine. Let me take a shower.” 

“Make it quick. We have a Lacrosse practice to go to.” 

Peter tilted his head curiously, like a snake sizing a mouse. “Why? Any new information about our ‘dark and dreary’ friend?” 

“No,” said Chris, “but I want to see how he acts around other people.” As he spoke he moved to the dresser where the outfit he’d assembled last night lay neatly folded on the top shelf. 

He could feel Peter’s eyes on his back as he pulled the shirt on over his naked chest. “I thought you were going to take a shower?” he asked. He couldn’t deny the swelling of self-satisfied pride that filled his chest at the lusty look in Peter’s eyes. 

Peter took his eyes off his ass and met his gaze with a cocky grin. “Can’t a man enjoy the view in the morning?” he asked with a slight raise of his brow. 

“If you don’t take a shower and get dressed soon you can enjoy the view of the back of my head as I drive away. Now git,” he shooed Peter off with his hand. 

“You’re no fun anymore,” Peter said as he slid off the bed. “Remember back when we used to take showers together? That was fun.” 

“We still do that,” Chris pointed out as he rifled through their shared closet. The clothes mostly belonged to Peter, but he had his own nice and neat little section towards the back. 

“Yeah,” said Peter. His footsteps were barely audible as he crossed the carpeted flooring. 

A weight rested on Chris’s shoulder. A pair of arms snaked around his waist and pulled him close. His stubble rubbed against his neck. 

“But even when you’re not with me _physically,_ ” Peter purred into his ear, “I still have you in my _thoughts._ ” 

“I love you,” Chris said with a smirk, “but keep it up and all you’ll have of me is in your thoughts. Now _go._ ”

Peter nipped at Chris’s ear but his arms slid away from his chest. “I’m too good for you,” he complained as he left. 

Chris rolled his eyes and continued getting dressed as he listened to the shower start in the other room. He paused briefly to examine himself in the mirror Peter insisted they keep across from their bed. Every time he looked he thought he could see a few more gray strands of hair amongst the dark blonde. 

As he waited for Peter in the kitchen a soft, lyrical noise drifted in from underneath the bathroom door. Chris smiled. 

He would never let Peter know he’d heard or else he might never hear his lovely voice again. It wasn’t that Peter was self-conscious but that in those rare, vulnerable moments he preferred to be left alone and Chris understood well enough that Peter needed it. He suspected Peter was aware he had an audience but so long as it remained a silence one he was content to let it be. 

They packed up the car with the usual equipment before they left. Not having a definitive answer as to what was afflicting Stiles they grabbed a bit more supplies than usual. 

They stopped at the café, as they always did. The shop smelt nice but Chris preferred the natural, bitter scent of grounds in his own home. At least the sugary sweet drinks had given Peter and Allison something to bond over. Like a spoilt house cat Peter lost some of his sass once he’d been fed an unhealthy diet of coffee and sugar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to add additional tags as the chapters come out so please keep an eye on those. If you liked this please leave a comment, thank you <3


	3. Chapter 3

A multitude of sympathetic glances, anxious coughs, and uneasy smiles met Stiles as he breezed past the reception desk into the Sheriff’s station. Those he could handle. It was the one’s who saw him and winced that made him want to melt into the floorboards. He wasn’t the only person still in mourning. One of the men stood and left, disappearing into a room that Stiles knew led only to an overstuffed supply closet. Yet another frowned deeply and turned his head away when their eyes met. 

Stiles didn’t bother trying to hide his lack of a smile, they knew he wasn’t okay and he wasn’t willing to pretend like he was. The station looked exactly the same as it always had but the feel was different. The office door was shut with the blinds down and for a second Stiles could pretend his father was waiting for him with his usual affectionate but disapproving expression and his reading glasses sliding so far down his nose he might as well not have worn them at all. 

“Stiles,” breathed one a blonde deputy in the corner. Jordan stood from his desk and was standing in front of him in a second. “Are you alright?” he asked, laying a hand down on Stiles’s shoulder. He grimaced. “You’re freezing.” 

Stiles raised his head a bit and nodded. The chill never left his bones but it was just the spirit’s presence and he knew the spirit wouldn’t harm him. “I’m … Surviving. I just came to get some of my dad’s things,” Stiles said. He blinked to drive away the emotions building up in his chest. These days he didn’t like seeing Jordan much; he was too much like his father had been. His words were too stern, his decisions too final, and his affection to unquestionable. 

Jordan furrowed his brow. “No, don’t worry about it. I’ll bring them to you, okay? You go home and rest. You look like you could use it.”

“I’m fine, Jordan,” Stiles said. He shook the hand from his shoulder and tried to side-step, but Jordan was too quick for him. 

“You might think you are,” he said, “but ‘fine’ only goes so far. Why don’t you go wait in-“ 

“It’s something he’s gotta do himself, Parrish.” A pair of warm arms wrapped tight around Stiles’s torso and pulled him back into a hug so tight for a minute he thought he might break. Still, he melted into the warm, motherly hold. She was shorter than him and her curly hair tickled his cheek, but there was no one who could make him feel more at home than she could. 

If he had to pick a motherly figure in his life he would have thought immediately of Tara. She was strong and stubborn, like his biological mother had been. She was the one who stepped in and took him to the park and drove him to school when his father had been driven too far down by depression and drinking to remember his own name. She was also the one who made him put down the bottle when it seemed like he might never give it up. 

It had come as a second, painful blow when she hadn’t stepped forward as a foster parent. He knew her reasoning, but that didn’t make it any easier. 

“Tara, his _injury_ ,” Jordan said with a small tug to his fellow deputy’s sleeve. 

Tara released him immediately. Her dark eyes shone with guilty. She smiled at him weakly.

Stiles found himself missing the warmth of her embrace.

“I’m sorry sweetheart, did I-?“

“You didn’t hurt me,” Stiles said with a forced grin. “You know me. I bounce back. Plus, the doc’s got me on some crazy anti-pain pills.” It wasn’t true but a white lie never hurt. The spirit had done a good job of patching his skin back up the day he left the hospital. There wasn’t even a scar to mark where the bullet had been. 

Tara smiled. “It’s good to see you again. How are you doing?” 

“Surviving,” he said. “But I have Lacrosse practice in a bit, so can I-?” 

“Lacrosse practice?” Jordan interrupted. “You’re injured. You shouldn’t even be driving.”

“I’m not participating,” Stiles said. “Coach just wants me to be there for the team. He shouted something at me about ‘cooperation.’ Then he gave me a hug.”

The skepticism in Jordan’s eyes never faded. “As long as you aren’t on the field,” he said. 

“Is he,” Stiles hesitated. “Is _he_ still here?” He didn’t want to know, but he had to ask. 

Jordan nodded solemnly. “We’re working on the transfer to Cook County now.”

Stiles chewed on his lip. Somewhere in the building was the man that killed his father. “He should have been transferred by now. Why is he still here?” 

_I’ll protect you,_ the spirit said. _He won’t hurt you ever, ever again._

“He’ll be gone by week’s end. Makes me sick that that bastard isn’t already rotting in the state penitentiary, but there’s a gas leak at the jail and they can’t take anyone else in.” Tara’s eyes went deadly. “To think that he-“ 

“Tara,” Jordan said sharply 

Tara’s eyes softened. “I’m sorry. I know you know.” 

“Trust me, none of us are making it easy on him,” Jordan said. “He’s not having a good time in here and I promise he’s going to get every single charge thrown at him. He’ll spend the rest of his life behind bars.” 

“Why hasn’t anyone stabbed him yet?” Stiles asked, though Jordan’s promise was little consolation. 

Tara squeezed his shoulder. “Because if we did that your father might spring up out of the grave. We have a job to do and if something happens to that man than we never get our justice.”

“Yeah,” said Stiles with a small nod. She was right even if Stiles’ really wished she weren’t. The fact that Richards still had a life left to live felt too good for him. “Not that I don’t like seeing you guys but I really don’t want to be in the same building as him for longer than I need to be. I just wanna get my dad’s stuff and go.”

“Oh, I know,” said Tara. Do you need help packing anything? I could get some boxes for you if it’d help.” 

“That would be great, thanks. I didn’t think to bring one. I’m just so used to driving on over. Kinda like that auto-pilot thing?”

Tara patted him sympathetically on the shoulder. “I know, hun. Things will be different around here.” 

Jordan nodded his agreement as well. “Your father was a good man. If you need help -with anything- you have my number.” 

“And mine,” said Tara. “And the rest of the stations. The next time I see you better not be in handcuffs again,” she teased. She raised one finger at him teasingly. “I don’t wanna be the one to start bailing you out of trouble.” 

Stiles couldn’t help but to nod politely. “Yes ma’am,” he said. 

“Good boy. You go get your things. I’ll get your box.” 

“I’ve got to take care of some things, but come see me before you leave, alright?” Jordan said. 

Stiles nodded. “Sure. I’ll come by as soon as I can.” 

Stiles slipped through the door of the sheriff’s office before any more deputies could approach. He saw a few give him uncertain glances, as if they wanted to join the conversation. He didn’t blame them for feeling nervous. He was their deceased boss’s child, and they’d already gotten the good-bye’s and condolences out at the funeral. 

The sheriff’s office was the cleanest Stiles had ever seen it. Case files had been removed from the shelves, the desk was swept clear, and takeout containers weren’t spilling from an overfilled trash can. His father wasn’t smiling (or glaring) at him from the chair. 

Stiles swallowed down the pain in his chest as he looked at the room he may never see again. He wasn’t sure he ever wanted to see it again, not without his father behind the desk. 

In the back of his mind the spirit made itself known. _It’s all right,_ he comforted. _Don’t worry. I’m here for you._

He started gathering up the picture frames without looking at the photos inside. He didn’t need to look to know which ones they were. Pulling open the desk drawer he found the usual office-type supplies inside, pens, pencils, a single stapler. He found hidden in the far back corner a stashed French fry container.

He wasn’t alone in the room for long. Tara came back in carrying a large cardboard box with the words ‘ _Sheriff’s Station – DO NOT REMOVE_ ’ printed on the side. 

“I’m sorry to make you do this, sweetheart,” Tara said. “I know it’s not easy but the Feds will be heading down soon and I don’t want them taking a single pen that doesn’t belong to them.” 

“The Feds can keep his pens.” Despite what he’d said Stiles scooped a handful from the open drawer and dropped them inside the box. 

For the next fifteen minutes he and Tara scoured the office up and down for every trace of his father. 

“You might not be the sheriff’s kid anymore, but you come around anytime you like, okay?” 

“Thanks,” he said. “But I don’t know that everyone wants me here as much as you do.” 

“Oh sweetie,” her face fell. “It’s just painful for them. It’s painful for all of us. We all miss your father and you, well, you might not look like him but you talk like him, you’re stubborn like him. You’re a piece of him that got left behind and some of them aren’t ready to face that yet.” 

“Yeah,” said Stiles with a quiet nod. “I-I’ll miss it here but it’s not the same without him.” 

“I know,” she said. Her face brightened a little. “I got something for you.” 

“You didn’t have to do that,” Stiles said with a frown. Tara reached into her pocket and pulled out a small bundle of wrapped blue fabric.

“Oh yes I did.” 

She handed it over and Stiles unwrapped it carefully. He already guessed what it was the second he recognized the unusual, triangular shape. A lump formed in his throat the second he caught sight of the faded, gold metal. He ran his thumb over the edges that had once been sharp but were now dull and faded with time. The words “ _Sheriff Stilinski_ ” were etched in the middle. 

“Thank you,” he said quietly. His eyes started to water. It should have gone to evidence, his father had been wearing it when he died. “Are you going to get in trouble for this?” he asked. 

Tara shrugged. “I can bite the bullet if I have too.” 

“Please don’t,” Stiles said with a bitter laugh. “The last thing I need is someone else taking a bullet for me. 

“Oh, honey I’m so sorry,” without warning she grasped onto his arms and pulled him in tight for the longest and hardest hug he’d ever receive. She buried her face into his shoulder and for the first time in his life Stiles was aware of the fact that Deputy Tara was smaller than him. “I’m so sorry.” 

Stiles had listened to Tara explain to mothers their children had died. He had heard her respond with perfect calm to the scene of a burning building. He watched her look at a million and one crime scenes with the face of solemn professionalism. Never in his life had he heard a quake in her voice like the one he heard then. 

“I’m so sorry, sweetie,” she kept saying over, and over, again. 

Stiles hadn’t realized he’d started hugging her too, his father’s badge clasped tight in one hand but his other digging into the material of her jacket.

“It’s okay,” he whispered into her ear even though they both knew it wasn’t. “It’s okay.” 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t keep you,” she said right into his ear. “But you know I care, right?” 

“I know,” Stiles said. His lip trembled. He pressed his face into Tara’s shoulder and hugged her just as tight. “It’s okay. I understand.” 

“It’s just my stupid husband, and I’ve got a kid of my own, and all the bills and-“ her voice became unintelligible as she rambled on. “I’m just so sorry, sweetheart. If things were different you know I’d take you in a heartbeat, I just – It’s just – we’re not –“ 

“It’s okay,” Stiles said. “It’s okay. You’ve done enough for me and I – I know you’d help me if you could.” It didn’t lessen any of the betrayal in his heart, but the rational side of him knew Tara was a good person. 

“I would. Of course I would, sweetie. Anything you ever need from me you’ve got it, okay?”

Stiles nodded. 

Tara pulled away with tears still clinging to her eyelashes. She lifted a hand and wiped them away with the back of her palm. She gave him the meek smile of someone who felt incredibly guilty for a tragedy they hadn’t caused. 

“It’s okay,” he felt compelled to say again. 

“Oh, honey it’s not,” she said. “You look like you haven’t slept in ages. It’s not okay, but it will be. You know that, right?” 

Stiles nodded. He didn’t, but he had the spirit with him now. He didn’t have to face everything on his own, and he supposed in a way he still had Jordan and Tara too.

“I know,” was all he could manage to say. A small tick in the back of his brain reminded him that the situation was backwards. He should have been the one crying and being comforted. He should have been the one demanding to know why Tara hadn’t adopted him. Instead, he gave her a flimsy smile and a half-hearted pat on the shoulder. 

She returned his flimsy smile with a weak one of her own. 

“I have to get to lacrosse practice,” Stiles said. He gave a cursory glance to the clock in the corner of the office. It was always ten minutes slow. 

Tara’s false smile dropped. She could always tell when he was lying but she knew better than to call him out on it. 

“Alright, honey. You don’t be afraid to come back here.” She squeezed his elbow tight for a second and wiped a few persistent tears from her eyes. “Promise me you’ll get some rest. I don’t like those shadows under your eyes one bit.” 

“I won’t be,” Stiles said, “and I promise.” He knew he didn’t want to return to the station again, but he would miss the deputies. 

_Wait,_ the spirit said before Stiles could turn towards the door. _You’re forgetting something. We need it._

Stiles furrowed his brow. 

_The gun,_ the spirit said. _You shouldn’t leave that behind. It belonged to him._

A cold chill crept up Stiles’s spine. _It didn’t belong to my dad. It’s property of the station._

_So is the badge but you wanted that._

_It’s different. The gun killed people._

_It didn’t kill. It protected_

_I don’t care. I never want to see one of those things again._ He shifted the box of things under his arm and walked out of the room. _Ever. Ever again._

He wanted to say goodbye to Jordan before he’d left but when he hovered over his desk he saw him speaking quickly into a phone with a furrowed brow. He knew better than to interrupt so he hovered idly for a few seconds before leaving with his box of misappropriated items under his arm. 

Unlike the other boxes stacked haphazardly in the back of his jeep he slowly and carefully found an unoccupied corner to set the box down where it wouldn’t be damaged. It found a home wedged between some old clothes and a duffle bag of books he never intended to read. He should have unpacked long ago but taking his things inside the Whittemore home felt too final. 

As he peeled out of the station the spirit whispered in his mind, _I hope you don’t regret leaving any part of him behind._

He was completely silent on their drive back to the high school. Classes were ending just as he pulled up to the building. So far, his frequent absences hadn’t become a problem. Jackson didn’t care whether he went or not and Harris wouldn’t even look him in the eyes. The other teachers offered him sympathy and easy grading on all tests and quizzes and didn’t even ask him to turn in his homework assignments. Sometimes he felt like he was the one who died. 

He pulled into his usual spot beside the track field and grabbed his uniform and stick from the backseat, taking just a moment to check that the box of his father’s things hadn’t been disturbed. 

Satisfied, he tucked his keys in his pocket and walked to the locker room entrance. He paused with his hand hovering just above the door handle. He could hear a loud voice inside. If Jackson was having one of his Red Bull fueled rants again he wasn’t about to walk in on the middle of it. 

“He’s been trying to steal my girlfriend for years and now the little asshole wants my parents too.” 

Stiles gripped his lacrosse stick tighter. He didn’t need to guess who was speaking. 

“I don’t think that’s what he’s doing. Stiles didn’t make your parents take him in,” and there was Danny, the voice of reason for an otherwise unreasonable man. 

“You can bet that little shit has been jealous of me for years. I play better than him, I have a better car than him. I’m not some loser kid with a dead dad.” 

Stiles winced and gritted his teeth. He shoved the door open and clenched his fists tight at his sides. “Don’t talk about my dad.” 

Danny and Jackson both turned to look at him. The half-dozen people crowded around Jackson looked up. Some anxiously turned their heads in another direction and busied themselves with their uniforms, while others looked excited by the possibility of a fight. 

Danny, who was nearest Jackson took a step back and out of his direct path. 

“Oh, and now he’s spying on me too,” said Jackson in a low, seething tone. His eyes narrowed. 

“You’re talking in a locker room, a _public_ locker room. In case you forgot, I’m on this team too.” 

“Maybe I did forget,” said Jackson. He held his head high and gave a small little smirk that stiles would have loved to erase with the business end of his lacrosse stick. “It’s hard to remember someone who just sits on the bench every day. Maybe if you actually played once in a while someone would cheer your name instead of mine.” 

“I’d rather sit on the bench,” Stiles said. His mouth moved without his conscious effort. He tried to blink his eyes but they wouldn’t move. The spirit slid into the forefront of his mind as easily as pulling on a glove. “I can stare at the pretty redhead in the bleachers.” 

_What are you doing?_ Stiles asked. This time he was the only voice in his head. _Stop it._

Jackson’s face went red. “You did not just say that to me, Stilinski.” 

“Oh, so you do know my name?” The spirit raised his brow. “Congratulations. I thought you only knew two syllable words.” 

The people who stuck around to watch chuckled. 

Danny stepped forward. “Jackson let’s just-“ 

“You guys think that’s funny?” Jackson whipped his head around to glare at his teammates. His fists were balled up so tight at his sides Stiles expected to see blood dripping out from under his fingernails. 

The laughter quieted instantly like a snuffed candle. The rest of the team looked towards the door or to their feet. 

Jackson moved forward. “And you,” he hissed with jab of his finger, “better keep your damn eyes away from my _girlfriend_ or I’ll-“ 

“Or you’ll _what_?” The spirit laughed. “Tell mom and dad on me? They wouldn’t believe you.” 

“I swear to god-“ Jackson raised his fist. 

Internally Stiles winced. He prepared for a punch straight to his nose. He could already feel his bones breaking and his head hitting the floor. The spirit stared straight ahead, shoulders back, a small, mocking smirk on his stolen lips. 

Jackson moved to swing. 

A loud whistle pierced the air and made them both wince and cover their ears. 

Coach Finstock stood behind the crowd with a clipboard held in one hand and his whistle near his mouth in the other.

“Jackson! Bilinski! Good to see you two so fired up before the game. Let’s save the heat for the opposition, huh boys?” 

“Yes coach,” Jackson mumbled. 

“Good,” said Finstock. “Everyone out on the field. Today’s bootcamp.” 

Jackson gave Stiles a lingering glare as he backed away. 

Stiles breathed a sigh of relief. It took him a second before he realized he was back in control of his own body. He leaned against the wall. “What the hell were you thinking?” he asked as he slid down to onto the bench. 

_I told you I wouldn’t let us be hurt,_ the spirit said, _and I didn’t._

“Yeah, well, before Jackson used to only bother me at school now I have to worry about him beating me up at his house, too.” 

_He won’t,_ said the spirit. _I’ll protect us._

“Thanks,” Stiles said. “But you’re the one who gets me into this shit.” 

The spirit didn’t respond. 

He took a few moments to catch his breath. He felt winded though he’d barely moved at all during the encounter. He shivered and put his hood up over his head. He wrapped his arms around himself as he walked back out onto the field. The sun overhead did little to warm his body. 

Isaac Lahey was already sitting on the bench. He had a white cast around his leg with a few scribbles of ‘get well’ down the side. He never really smiled, even when he made tryouts he just nodded and uttered a quiet thanks. 

The spirit’s consciousness brushed up against his own. 

“Dude, what happened?” Stiles asked, indicating the cast. It was new since the last time Stiles saw him riding his bike to school. He’d long since given up trying to offer him a ride. He never accepted. 

Isaac grimaced. He scooted over a little on the bench to make room for Stiles. 

“Nothing major,” he said. “Hairline fracture. My dad was pretty pissed about it.” He kept his eyes away from Stiles and out on the field. 

“Why? Not like you did it to yourself.” 

“It was my fault. I got locked in a – in a room. I tried to kick my way out. I kicked harder than I thought, I guess. It could be worse.” He shrugged. 

“That sucks,” said Stiles. “How long do you need the cast for.” 

Isaac’s shoulders slumped a little. “I don’t really want to talk about my cast.” 

“Is it-“ 

The spirit hissed. 

Stiles hand shot up. A vicious sting went through his palm. He let out a grunt of pain and dropped the thing that had nearly hit him. A small white lacrosse ball rolled on the ground. In the direction it came from Jackson stood with a lopsided grin. His grin faltered when he saw Stiles glaring back at him. 

“Nice catch,” said Isaac, with wide-eyed bewilderment. 

The spirit’s volatile anger flooded through Stiles’s body. It wasn’t a warm, passionate kind of anger like he would have expected. No, the spirit’s anger was cold and expansive like a stream pouring through his veins. It made him shiver as what little warmth he carried was sucked from his skin. 

_He tried to hurt us,_ said the spirit with a dark rasp. He was pushed back from his mind as the spirit assumed control of their shared body. 

_It’s alright,_ thought Stiles. _It’s alright. He didn’t-_

_He could have hurt us, Stiles,_ the spirit repeated. 

The spirit stood and snatched up the ball. With a quick, fluid motion and a snap of his wrist he sent it speeding towards the back of Jackson’s head. 

No one had any time to warn him as the ball collided with his skull. 

Jackson jerked and hit the ground. He released his stick and lay, unmoving on the grass, the ball bouncing to a halt a few feet away. 

Stiles stayed frozen in silent terror. 

The spirit watched through his eyes with calm calculation. 

Danny left his goal and rushed to Jackson’s side. The rest of their teammates were soon to follow. 

“What the fucking hell!” Jackson shouted. He scrambled back up off the ground, clutching the side of his head and glaring daggers at the bench where Stiles stood, his arm still outstretched from the throw. He stumbled as he got to his feet and took several staggered steps towards him. 

Stiles backed away. His body still shaking. He saw a flash of strawberry blonde hair as Lydia raced past him onto the field, the hem of her dress fluttered as she ran. 

“Jackson?” she took his face in her hands and angled his head down towards her. “Jackson are you alright?” 

Jackson wiped a hand over his mouth. A small trail of blood stained his glove. “That jealous little shit hit me!” He pointed towards Stiles and spat onto the ground. His saliva was tinged with pink. 

“I wasn’t – he threw first. I-” 

“It wasn’t an accident! That little fuck is on steroids or something!” 

“Stilinski!” Coach snapped. “What’s the matter with you?” 

Lydia combed through Jackson’s hair with her fingers. “Are you dizzy? Do you have a concussion? How many fingers do you-“ 

“I don’t have a damn concussion,” Jackson said. He yanked his head out of Lydia’s hands and stumbled back a few paces into Danny’s chest. 

“Dude we need to get you an ice pack,” said Danny. He put his hand on Jackson’s shoulder and started to slowly walk him back towards the locker room. 

“Good idea. Danny, take Jackson to the nurse. Stilinski,” Coach looked over at him. His eyes were a mix of sympathy and confusion. “You go home, alright?” 

Stiles stomach churned. Everyone was watching him. Even Lydia. Their looks weren’t at all pleasant and Lydia’s was _afraid._

⋯⊶⋯⊷⋯

The smell of death burned in Peter’s nose, it was masked by a layer of teenage sweat and energy drinks, but it was unmistakably wafting from the field.

The source of the smell, Stiles, stood with his eyes wide and his fingers clenched. His pulse was weak but his fear was strong. He was cold, too, significantly colder than anyone else on the field and much too cold for the Californian weather. It was as if he’d been bathed in ice. 

Chris squeezed his shoulder. 

“Lydia’s right, he has death on him.” 

“Cryptic,” said Chris. “Could you be a little more descriptive?” 

“He’s cold. His pulse is too low. His breathing’s shallow. He doesn’t look like he’s been sleeping, either.”

“Lydia said he’s been sleepwalking,” Chris mused. “Jackson caught him sneaking out of their house a few nights ago, but didn’t see where he went. Said he had something in a bag.” 

Lydia tugged on the seething Jackson’s sleeve, guiding him towards the school. He cussed and spat onto the ground but let himself be led away. 

Stiles turned away from his teammates whom watched with a mix of wonder and fear. He hunched his shoulders as he walked towards his jeep and to where Peter and Chris waited. 

The boy’s mouth was moving but Peter couldn’t catch anything he said, even with supernatural hearing. As he grew closer the scent of fear and rot grew stronger. At least this time there weren’t any flies settled on his shoulders, none that they could see, anyways.

“You really want to do this?” Peter whispered while the boy was still too far away to hear.

“He won’t attack us in front of all those people. He wouldn’t risk it.” 

“You’re _hoping_ he won’t risk it.”

“Just trust me,” said Chris. His hand dropped from Peter’s shoulder as Stiles approached.

“Nice arm you’ve got there,” Peter said when Stiles was only a few feet away. 

The boy blinked and looked over at them. His eyes were slightly glazed. 

“Huh? Oh, thanks,” he mumbled. He looked at them for a second and at the Tahoe behind them. He furrowed his brow. “You’re blocking me in. Could you move?” 

“Sorry,” said Chris with a small, friendly smile. “Your name’s Stiles, right?” 

The boy’s shoulders stiffened. “How do you know my name?” 

“I knew your father,” he said. 

Stiles blinked. He looked at Chris’s face for a second, then flickered his eyes over to Peter. “I’ve never seen you before.”. 

“My apologies,” said Chris. “My name’s Chris Argent. I worked with your dad at the station. I supplied a lot of the weapons and vests they used.” 

“O-oh,” said Stiles. “You’re Allison’s dad.” 

“Right,” said Chris with a polite nod. “I didn’t know you two were close. This is Peter. He’s my husband.” 

Peter nodded. He didn’t like the way the boy kept sneaking side glances at him. 

Stiles’s fingers twitched. 

“It’s nice to meet you,” Peter said, giving the boy a smile all the same. “How are you feeling?” 

“I’m fine. Could you move your car now? I really should be getting home.” 

“Go home?” Chris raised a brow. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been in High School, Stiles, but I know practices take longer than a few minutes. Sure you can’t spare a few?” 

“What is this about?” he asked.

“Well, if I’m being completely honest we wanted to check up on you.” 

“We know how hard the loss of a loved one can be,” said Peter. “When our family was killed my nephew, Derek, didn’t handle it well. No one can. He didn’t eat, didn’t sleep, he started having hallucinations, sleepwalking.” 

Stiles heartbeat, feeble as it was, started to increase. 

“He described it as a persistent chill that never went away. Back then he looked a lot like you do now.” 

“Sorry about your nephew,” said Stiles, “but I’m fine.” 

“Aside from nailing your teammate in the face with a ball?” asked Peter. 

“Jackson isn’t-“ Stiles cut himself off mid-sentence. His body went tense. For a second his heart refused to beat and when it returned, a mere moment later, it was slow and steady. He rolled his shoulders back and tilted his head just slightly. If they hadn’t been facing Peter wouldn’t have been able to pinpoint the exact moment when the light left his eyes. 

“Jackson is not a friend,” he said. “If you’d been paying attention you would have noticed he attacked us first.” 

“’Us’?” Chris raised a brow. 

“Myself and Lahey,” Stiles said. 

“You might think you’re fine,” said Chris. “Sometimes the things we think are helpful don’t always have our best interests at heart.” 

“Fascinating,” said Stiles. “I would like you to move your vehicle. Please.” 

“Come on, Peter,” said Chris.

Peter furrowed his brow, but he followed along nonetheless, climbing into the passenger’s side door as Chris rounded the car and got into the driver’s side. 

“What do you want to do?” Peter asked. “Just let that thing get away?” 

“For now, yes.” Chris pulled the Tahoe away from the jeep, just far enough that it could slide out and back onto the street. “What else would we do?” 

“Grab the little bastard and throw him in the trunk.” 

They watched as Stiles got into his car. As he put the key in the ignition his body shuddered. He blinked a few times and then started the vehicle. As he drove off he looked back at Peter and Chris, still sitting in the Tahoe. 

Chris snorted. “Then what? Keep him locked up in the basement? We have no idea what would hold that thing.” 

“Then we put him in a box and wrap it with mountain ash, mistletoe, wolfbanes, sage, and nightshade. Anything we can think of.” 

“It’s nice to see you so proactive but that wouldn’t work. We just need to let it know we’re watching.” 

Peter slumped back and put his arms behind his head. “Well no offense, Chris, but if your ‘intimidation tactics’ were that effective I wouldn’t still be living in Beacon Hills, now would I?” Peter smirked and leaned back in his seat. 

Chris huffed a dry laugh. “If I though intimidating it would work I would have brought out the gun. No, I want to make it worry. This way it’ll have to think twice about causing any sort of trouble that’ll draw attention to it.” 

“I see,” mused Peter. “Do we know what ‘it’ is? My nose says it’s due for a burial.” 

Chris pulled the tablet out from the glove compartment and switched it on. It was small and black, a generic tablet rather than a fancier name-brand one. It was old but so long as it worked fine Chris wouldn’t let him replace it. 

He pulled up the Bestiary and swiped through the screens until he found the page he was looking for. 

“Likely a Nogitsune, a spirit of chaos and darkness. They aren’t common but Stiles shows all the same symptoms. Low body temperature, scent of rot, dark eyes, and sleep walking.” He handed over the tablet to Peter. The illustration on the page was of a man sporting sharp fangs, with whited-out eyes, and flies hovering above his shoulders. 

“Well, he doesn’t have the fangs.” 

“Neither do you half the time,” said Chris. 

Peter sighed and handed the tablet back to Chris. “So how do we defeat this ‘Nogitsune,’?” 

“Wolf lichen might do the trick. It’s not going to be easy to get, though.” 

“How ‘not easy,’ exactly?” Peter arched a brow. He slumped lower in his seat, certain it wasn’t going to be good. 

“You’re going to have to shift,” said Chris, “and there’s going to be guns pointed at us. Lots and lots of guns.” 

“Oh, Chris Argent,” said Peter. “You are lucky I love you.”

Chris leaned over and planted a chaste kiss on his cheek. “I know,” he purred. “Now call your nephew.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make me happy, thanks n.n (this is the last really long chapter I promise.)


	4. Chapter 4

A steely cold gripped Chris’s insides as the gun pointed at his face. He kept his tone calm and even. The man in front of him looked young, either early or mid-twenties. He wore a black suit with a tie that hadn’t been fit properly around his throat.

“I understand this is private property but my contact should have informed you we’d be stopping by. I spoke with Silver Finger.” 

The gun didn’t lower by even an inch though the look on the man’s eyes wavered. “I don’t know how you got in here but you must leave,” he said. “Go now.” 

“I got in the same way as anyone else. I opened the door,” Chris said. It was only a half-truth, the guards outside had been easily dispatched with a dart in the neck. It wouldn’t kill them but they’d be asleep for some time before they woke up again. “He doesn’t like weapons,” Chris said, indicating the wolf at his side. “I’d put the gun away if I were you.” 

Beside him, Peter’s lips curled back. His claws scraped along the wood floor as he stepped forward. He was a fearsome creature to behold. His eyes piercing and fierce. Black fur the color of a starless night ran from the tip of his ears and melted into gray as it reached his belly. Underneath it all was a sliver of white that only Chris ever got to see. It was a trait he’d always been self-conscious of, but standing there he showed nothing but confidence with his head held high, his ears upright, and his claws unsheathed. 

In a quick and ill-thought movement the man turned the gun on Peter. 

Peter’s growl deepened. He flicked his tail back and let out a deep bark, his teeth snapping as he did. 

The man flinched. 

“It’s a bad omen to kill a wolf, isn’t it?” Chris asked. He narrowed his eyes and placed a hand on Peter’s bristling shoulders. The muscles underneath the coarse fur were tight. 

“What is this talk of killing wolves?” 

Atop the steps another man appeared wearing a black suit with the jacket undone to reveal a white shirt messily untucked underneath. His dark eyes fell on Peter, who dropped the snarl and straightened. 

“Ikeda-sama,” mumbled the man with the gun. He lowered it and looked away, shame-faced. “These _intruders_ were-“

Ikeda silenced him with a deathly glare. 

“If we had intruders I should have been notified. Especially with one so,” once more his eyes went to Peter and fixated there, “honorable.” 

Peter puffed up his chest. He stood tall with his ears erect. 

Chris patted his flank. “He’s a good wolf.” 

“They’re _all_ good wolves,” said Ikeda. “What brings you to my home?” 

“Silver Finger told me you could help with a little problem we’ve been having. I don’t need much.”

“Silver Finger is a paranoid recluse who has never left his estate. Forgive me for treating what he says with a bit of skepticism. How do you know each other?” 

“It’s a long story. Mind if we speak privately?” 

“Privately? No. But there are more _secure_ -” he looked to the man, “-locations inside this home. Follow me.” Ikeda turned on his heel and went through the hallway he’d come out of. On their way past the man, Peter growled once more just low enough for the three of them to hear. 

Calling it a ‘home’ was an understatement. They passed by many lavish rooms furnished with exquisite décor. On their way in more men with guns passed. Everyone bowed their heads politely towards Ikeda and regarded Peter with mixed expressions of reverence and fear. A few followed loyally behind their leader. Chris could feel their eyes locking onto the back of his neck as they walked down the halls. 

The room they came to was just as lavish as all the others. The red sofas were piled high with cushions and a small fire burned in the middle of the room. A still-lit cigarette lay on an ornate ashtray. 

Laying on a large red pillow beside the fireplace was another wolf. Its fur was white as snow and it looked softer than silk. Its large ears swiveled towards Peter and Chris. It lifted its head from the pillow and curled its tail inwards. 

Peter’s ears flicked back. 

Chris ran a hand down his spine and patted him on the flank. 

“This,” said Ikeda with pride, “is my Yuki. He is my pride and joy. I’ve had him since he was a pup.” 

“He’s beautiful,” said Chris. “Peter and I have only been together since I was a teenager.” 

Peter locked eyes with the white wolf and stood on straight, stiff legs. 

Yuki stood slowly from his pillow and took a few slow steps forward. He stopped beside his owner’s leg and sniffed the air. His eyes remained cautiously pointed in Peter’s direction but their eyes never met. 

“Where did he come from?” asked Ikeda.

“I could ask the same of yours.” 

Ikeda picked the cigarette up from the table and held it carefully over the low flames of the fire. He pulled it back once it relit and took a deep inhale. 

“A topic for another day,” said Ikeda as he exhaled a puff of dark smoke. “Sit, sit,” he encouraged with a wave. “Apparently, we have things to discuss.” 

Chris nodded and took a seat on one of the red sofas. 

Ikeda did the same, leaning back with the cigarette in his mouth. 

“You said you wanted information?”

“I spoke with Silver Finger. He said you might be able to enlighten me on a few things.” 

“Silver Finger,” spat Ikeda. “How do you know of a man who never leaves his home?” 

“He owes me a favor.” 

“What kind of favor is that?” 

“I killed an Oni that would have killed him if I hadn’t interfered.”

“An Oni?” Ikeda sat forward and took another inhale of his cigarette.

“Yes,” said Chris. “The same one who killed your father.” 

The men who stood beside the door tensed and gripped their guns tighter. 

“What do you know of my father?” 

Beside him the wolf lifted its head. 

Peter angled himself in front of Chris. 

“I was there the night he died. I was selling weapons to him and his men when the Oni showed up. I know that he was possessed by a Nogitsune.”

As the words left his lips Ikeda’s eyes widened. 

One of the men at the door uttered something frantic in Japanese. His skin had gone pale and his hands were shaking. 

Ikeda turned to him with a sharp glare. He ripped the cigarette from his mouth and snuffed it on the ash tray by grinding the butt into the ceramic. “Leave us!” he demanded. “Superstitious fools!” 

Both men fled the room as though it were on fire. 

Once they were gone Ikeda swore again. “Explain to me why you said that cursed name in my home,” he asked through gritted teeth. 

Drinking in his master’s body language Yuki’s ears flattened back against his head and his lips curled up to reveal a row of polished white teeth. 

Peter let out a snarl both deep and quiet. 

Chris paused for a moment, letting Peter’s angry noise fill the silence. When he spoke he was calm and steady, “because the same thing that happened to your father is happening to someone else. We want to stop him before the Oni come for him. You know how destructive they can be.”

“They murdered my father. They killed a dozen of his men and left his blood spilling into a fountain built by my great grandfather.” 

“I know,” he said. “I was there.”

“Then why do you need my help?” 

“The only way I know to kill a Nogitsune is with an Oni and I don’t have any Oni’s.” 

Ikeda tapped his snuffed cigarette against the ash tray. “What makes you think I know any other way?” He reached for Yuki and patted him between the shoulder blades. The wolf was momentarily distracted from its posturing by the hand on its back. “I don’t happen to have any Oni on my staff.”

Chris, likewise, stroked a hand over Peter’s flank. 

Peter let out a final snarl before he relaxed back his palm and turned his head just slightly in Chris’s direction, never letting Yuki slip from his view. 

“You can’t tell me you didn’t do your research.” 

“I’ve heard rumors and stories. The bite of a wolf,” Ikeda patted Yuki between his shoulder blades, “can destroy it. Something to do with their saliva. They say the monster coughs up a fly afterwards and the mortal soul returns.” 

Chris suppressed a grimace. It appeared Ikeda misheard the legend. Yuki would be no more affective against the Nogitsune than a fly trap. 

“When your father’s blood spilled into the fountain did it leave anything behind? Did anything grow in its place?” 

Ikeda furrowed his brow. “How do you know about that?”

“I did my research too.” 

Ikeda ran his hand up and down Yuki’s back. “We’ve tried burning it. It always comes back.” 

“I don’t want to get rid of it,” said Chris. “I want to collect it. Many years it was used eto poison wolves and foxes.” 

“You think it would kill that- that creature?”

“No, but I think it will come close. Weaken it so that it could be killed.” 

“Why not just shoot him through the heart, impale him with a sword, or just burn him like all evil things-“ 

Peter tensed. 

“-be rid of him for good.”

Chris dug his fingers down into Peter’s fur and held on tight. 

“It’s using an innocent boy as a host. I’d like to save him if we can.” 

“And what will you do with him once he’s freed? _If_ he’s freed?” 

“Will do what we always do with people like him,” said Chris with solemn determination.

Ikeda led him and Peter to a small courtyard. What had once been a beautiful garden with a wide variety of foliage was now overrun with neon green moss and the stench of rot. A few of the walls were charred and crumbling and the stone pathways had all but disappeared under the moss carpet. The fountain stood in the middle of it all, pouring green instead of blue. 

Peter froze in the doorway. 

Chris lightly nudged him forward but Peter wouldn’t go. 

“Your wolf is right to be afraid,” said Ikeda. He stood several feet away with Yuki crouched beside him, eyes refusing to even look in the direction of the courtyard. His tail tucked between his legs.

“It’s just a plant,” said Chris. 

He stepped into the courtyard. He shivered as the air temperature dropped several degrees. The moss underfoot squelched and leaked a thin layer of water. 

Peter growled. 

“It’s alright,” said Chris. He took a few more steps, each one punctuated by the wet, slopping noise of the moss. 

Peter stuck close on Chris’s heel. He nosed up against him and kept his ears pricked. 

Chris withdrew a set of gloves and a zip lock bag from his pocket. 

The moss clung to the fountain like a sheet. As he drew nearer the stench intensified until it burned at his nostrils. 

He pulled on the gloves and grimaced as he dug his fingers into the lichen, inwardly cringing at how slimy it felt between his fingers. The water had soaked in deep. He squeezed it to force out the excess water which was green and brown with sludge. He yanked a sizable clump from the fountain. It detached with a ‘snap.’ 

Chris let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and dropped the lichen into the bag before grabbing another handful. The slime the plant exuded clung to his gloves like glue and made it hard to release. 

As he went for a third handful Peter started to pant. He let out a low whine and shifted around on his feet. He nosed into Chris’s leg and pushed him back. His ears were pinned back as far as they would go. His eyes were wide and uneasy and his tongue hung out of his mouth as he swallowed down each gulp of air. 

“What’s wrong?” Chris asked. His tongue felt heavy as he spoke. The air was thick like syrup. 

Peter let out a sharp whine. He grabbed onto Chris’s pant leg and tugged him back. 

Chris felt a frozen breath ghost along his nape. He shed the gloves from his hands and turned away from the fountain. No one was in the court yard but Ikeda, watching from the doorway. 

Peter nudged the back of his knee, urging him to move.

A soft crunch followed Chris’s footsteps. It sounded right in his ear, like a monster grinding its teeth behind them. The further they walked the harder it became to breath.

Peter lead the way by leaping forward in bounds until he crossed the threshold back inside the building. As soon as he was through he shook himself of the liquid that congealed between his paws. 

Yuki skittered away from him. He pressed his muzzle into Ikeda’s leg. 

Stepping through the entryway Chris was hit with a sudden burst of heat as the icy airs that enveloped him fell away. The air was breathable once more and the foul stench retreated from his nostrils.

“What the hell was that?” he asked, unable to rid himself of the tingling that ran down his nape. When he tried to rub the feeling away he felt nothing but the cold chill of his own skin. 

“That,” said Ikeda, “is the emptiness that is the Void. It sneaks up on you, doesn’t it? It’s a slow, sapping thing.”

“I see.” Chris pulled his hand away from his nape and stared at his fingers. They’d gone pink at the tips from cold. 

“I have only one request as payment for letting you take that lichen from here.” 

Chris raised a brow.

“When you find that Nogitsune, if you manage to extract the fly from its body I want you to bring it to me.” 

“Why?” 

“So I can destroy it.”

⋯⊶⋯⊷⋯

“I’m s-s-so cold,” Stiles stammered. He could see steam rising up from the water pooling at his feet. It fogged the glass and thickened the air around him. The nozzle was twisted all the way to the left and yet the droplets that hit his back were as cold as ice. A glob of shampoo lay oozing down the side of the wall from when he’d dropped the bottle, the rest of it had already been swept down the drain

 _'I know,'_ said the spirit. 

Stiles clenched his toes, feeling the disgusting squelch of the dirt still stuck between them. He didn’t know where they had gone or for how long he’d been out. All he could remember was the touch of something cold and smooth in his palm. He was only aware of the real world again once he found himself climbing back in through his window and his aching feet fell upon the carpeted floor. His body was frozen and his heart rate erratic. 

“What did that m-man w-want?” He held himself tight under the water, praying for the heat to seep into his body. He remembered the way Allison’s dad looked at him at it made him uneasy. 

_'He’s a hunter, Stiles. He wants to kill you. He wants to kill us.'_

“Wh-why?” 

_'There is no reason. He wants to kill because he thinks we are a monster. But what are monsters, Stiles?'_

“S-something you don’t underst-stand.” 

_'That’s right. I have no reason to hurt you. I would never hurt you. I want to protect you. We have to stay away from that man.'_

“Okay,” said Stiles. “Okay, I trust you.” He ignored the shred of doubt creeping into the back of his brain. 

He turned off the nozzle and wrapped himself in one of the over-fluffed towels the Whittemore’s kept in neat little piles. Even the soft plush fabric did nothing to warm him. He dried his body and hair but his skin was numb to the touch.

He tugged on the bathrobe Linda had given him, one size too big but made of the softest material that wrapped around him like a blanket and went all the way down to his ankles. He staggered from the bathroom and down the hall to his bedroom with his arms wrapped tight around himself. 

On his way he heard two voices from the living room. 

“-slammed me right in the face. He’s a psycho.” 

“You pour thing,” said Lydia. Her voice was sweet but distant, like a parent admiring their child’s attempt at drawing.

“I’m going to talk to my- to David and Linda about him. He’s not right in the head. He’ll try to burn the house down next.” 

If he had any strength left Stiles would have rolled his eyes. 

Jackson wore his black eye as if it were a badge of honor, a medal for sticking up to the horrendous home-invading ‘Stilinski.’ 

_'Ignore him,'_ whispered the spirit. _'We will be free of him soon enough.'_

“What does that mean?” Stiles asked. A dark suspicion flickered in his heart. 

_'When I am strong enough we won’t need these toxic people. There will be more elsewhere.'_

He wrenched open his bedroom door. Getting his clothes back on was far harder than it should have been. He couldn’t get his muscles to obey his movements and his fingers couldn’t retain their grip. When he at least managed to force his body into a pair of sweatpants and a loose T-shirt he collapsed down onto the bed. He pulled the blankets up around his shivering body. Even his sheets were hard and cold. 

Stiles clenched his eyes shut and laid his head down on the pillow. He wiggled his toes in a vain effort to regain feeling in them. 

“I don’t f-feel good,” he said.

_'I know,'_ the spirit repeated. _'You were just out for too long. Don’t think about it.'_

"I never-“ 

_'Someone is coming.'_

Stiles clamped his mouth shut. He raised his head towards the door which hung open by a single inch. 

“Stiles?” Lydia asked. She knocked lightly on the frame. It pushed open a little with her touch, enough for one of her eyes to peer into the room. “Are you sleeping?” 

“N-no,” said Stiles. He sat up a little, keeping the blanket curled around his body. Years ago he would have jumped at the chance to have Lydia Martin in his bedroom, but now it was the last thing on his mind. “D’ you need something? B-bathrooms down the hall.”

Lydia pushed the door open a little more and stepped inside, shutting it quietly behind her. Her eyes traveled the walls and the sparse décor. When her eyes met Stiles’ her plump red lips tucked into a frown.

For the first time Stiles felt self-conscious about how under personalized his room was, but no matter how many things he used to fill the space it would never be his home. 

“Are you all right?” Lydia asked, concern evident in the way her eyes flickered from his own eyes down to his hands gripping the sheets tight. “You don’t look so good.” 

“I just got out of the shower,” Stiles blurted. In the back of his brain the spirit uncoiled itself and slithered to the forefront like a snake. The sensation made another frozen shudder travel up his spine. 

“O-oh,” said Lydia. Her eyes lingered on him for a few seconds before she continued. “I just wanted to talk. Do you have a second?”

The spirit overtook his mouth before he could utter a single syllable. 

“I should be getting to sleep,” it said. “I was out late.” 

“I can see that,” said Lydia with a soft smile. “You left quite a mess in the bathroom. There’s dirt trailing down the hall.” 

“I’ll clean it in the morning. Goodnight, Lydia.” 

Lydia’s smile faltered. “I – I didn’t mean anything by that. Can’t you just spare a second?” 

“A second for what?” 

Lydia laid her hands down on her lap and picked at her purple nail polish. “I just … I’ve been worried about you. I want to make sure you were okay. Allison’s dad said you weren’t looking so good at Lacrosse practice yesterday.” She pushed the door open and walked inside all while keeping her eyes on her hands. 

“You didn’t want to make sure I was okay while I was in the hospital. I don’t remember even a card from you.” The spirit narrowed his eyes. 

_'She was just busy,'_ Stiles thought. _'She has work and school. It’s not a big deal.'_

Lydia’s frown deepened. She picked at her nails a little harder and opened her mouth a few times before responding. “I didn’t – I mean I knew I’d see you again at school?” 

“What if you hadn’t? What if I died? Shots to the abdomen rarely work out so well.”

“I- I’m sorry,” Lydia said. “I should have been there for you, but-“ 

“But you were too busy spending time with your unfaithful boyfriend,” the spirit leaned back against the headboard. “I get it.” 

_'Stop. Lydia is our friend.'_

_'She is only pretending. She knows the hunter, Stiles. The one who wants to kill us.'_

“Unfaithful?” Lydia furrowed her brows. “Jackson isn’t-“ 

The door to the bedroom swung open. It smacked against the door and rebounded back an inch. Jackson stood in the doorway with his fists clenched down at his sides. There was a large purple bruise marring the left side of his face from where the lacrosse ball struck him. 

“Stilinski! There is a goddamn puddle in the middle of the hallway! What the hell are you doing in here?” he asked as soon as he noticed Lydia standing in the center of the room. 

“We were just having a talk, Jackson,” Lydia snapped, her head whipping to look at him like a viper about to strike. 

“You’re talking to _him_ of all people? The guy who assaulted me?” 

“Did you tell her about the part where you tried to attack me in the locker room?” the spirit asked. He pushed the blankets back and swung his legs over the side of the bed. 

“You did _what_? You told me you hadn’t spoken to him all day.” 

Jackson’s pupils widened. 

From the recesses of his mind the spirit’s icy tendrils of control spread out and enveloped Stiles’ consciousness. Emotion leaked through the connection between them. Anger, hurt, fear. They all came through in a sudden flood that made Stiles’ stomach tighten in a knot. He would have flinched if he’d still been in control of his body. 

“I was telling Lydia about Kathy,” the spirit said. 

“Kathy from your history class? The one who ‘meant nothing’?” Lydia crossed her arms over her chest. Her painted nails dug into her sleeves. 

Jackson clenched his jaw and swallowed. 

“She doesn’t mean anything. This asshole just wants attention.” 

The spirit leaned close to speak softly in Lydia’s ear. “She’s the girl he flirts with when you aren’t around. I hear them on the phone at night.” 

Lydia’s perfectly crafted eyebrows angled downward. 

Jackson’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. 

_'What are you doing?'_

_'It’s delicious, isn’t it?'_ the spirit asked him. _'All those volatile emotions filling the air.'_ The spirit’s rasping voice was quick and elated. Its presence undulated in his mind like a writhing eel. 

Stiles could feel the corners of his mouth turn up into a thin, cracked smile.

“Tell me that isn’t true,” Lydia demanded. 

“You’re going to believe him over me?” Jackson asked. He took a step back. “I’m your boyfriend. I let you eat food in my car.”

“As if that’s a privilege,” Lydia snapped with a haughty laugh. “I don’t –,” she paused. “You know what? We can have this conversation later. I’m dealing with Stiles right now. Not you.” 

“Why the hell are you so interested in this freak all of the sudden? Maybe you’re the one who’s been sneaking around.” The look in his eyes as they flickered to Stiles’ were positively murderous. 

“Not everything has to be about you,” said Lydia. She stood up from the bed and jabbed a finger into Jackson’s chest. “This discussion is over. Now go.” 

Stiles slid off the bed and approached while they were too busy glowering at each other to notice. His hands shot out and grasped them both tightly by their wrists. 

Lydia cried out and tried to pull away but his grip was hard enough to bruise. 

Jackson yelled and grasped onto the wrist holding his but the spirit only squeezed tighter. He narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. 

In his mind, Stiles struggled. He tried to break past the spirit’s wall that kept him imprisoned but it was like cutting through water. Nothing he did would separate it. 

Thick black veins traveled up the spirit’s arm.

They gasped. Lydia’s eyes rolled up into her head. Jackson gripped the hand on his arm but his fingers were feeble and his grip was weak. They swayed on their feet as he held them tight. 

The emotions coursing through Stiles’ body intensified. Fear, pain, and guilt all rushed over him like icy waves. He tried to release his friends but his body wouldn’t obey. The spirit brushed him aside like a speck of dust. The taste in his mouth soured with Lydia’s hurt and betrayal. Jackson’s guilt and fear pooled in his stomach and quickened his heartbeat. 

He could feel his their skin growing colder and colder in his hands until it was just as frozen as his own. The warmth was sucked right out, leaving them pale and frozen. Even the light in their eyes dulled as he held them in his ghastly grip. His blunt nails dug into their skin. 

He released without warning. Jackson and Lydia collapsed to the ground. Lydia’s head hit the corner of the bed on her way down. She gasped, jerked, and then went limp. 

Jackson stared with wide-eyed horror as the spirit stared down at him through Stiles’s eyes. He gasped for breath. He clawed at the carpet and tried to push himself back up but his arms were shaking. 

The spirit tilted his head and considered the two of them for a moment. 

A sudden light made him turn his head. A rusted old truck rolled down the street and stopped at the house across from the Whittemore’s. The headlights were killed just as Isaac Lahey stepped out of the vehicle. His leg had been freed from the cast but he still walked with a slight hobble in his step. 

Mr. Lahey got out of the driver’s side and slammed the door. Isaac flinched and hesitated before following after his father. 

A tiny trickle of fear leaked into Stiles’s body from across the street. He could practically feel Isaac’s heartbeat hammering in his chest like a little mouse. 

_'What are you doing?'_ Stiles demanded. His thoughts came out as whispers in the back of his mind. 

_'Feeding,'_ said the spirit. 

Its own thoughts were dark and deep and rumbling. He stuck his spindly fingers underneath the window frame and wrenched it open. He focused on Isaac’s back as he slid easily through the narrow space. The creaking of the window sill drowned out Jackson’s gasps as he shut it behind himself. 

_'Are they going to die?'_ Stiles asked. 

_'I don’t care.'_

_'You’re a monster.'_

_'No,'_ said the spirit. _'I am something you don’t understand.'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all the nice comments n.n


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read the end notes for additional warnings.

AN: This chapter contains child abuse between Isaac Lahey and his father as well as canon typical violence, so be warned. It’s a dark one. 

Stiles was drowning. The spirit washed over his consciousness and constricted his thoughts. His mouth was filled with the spirit’s words and his body was battered by the spirit’s control. He wondered if this was how a mouse felt in the strangling grip of a cobra. The bitter taste of vile emotions made him want to gag, if only he was still in control of his mouth. It was getting harder and harder to separate himself from the spirit. With every little struggle he felt like a small little piece of himself was broken off and lost to the void. He was still so damn cold. 

The spirit paid him no mind. He walked across the street in his stolen body with wet hair dripping onto his shoulders and bare feet crossing rough asphalt without a flinch. The rocks cut into his skin but the pain was numbed by the chill running through him.

The spirit’s eyes were unblinkingly focused on the little house in front of them. The door shut behind the Lahey’s. The glow from the porch light covered the steps in a grimy, slightly orange glow of old and inexpensive bulbs. It stood out amongst the lavish estates that populated the street with their bright and pristine illumination. 

They stepped over Isaac’s abandoned bike and slid a finger over the rust and mud covered truck as they walked past it. 

_'Stop,'_ Stiles pleaded. _'Go back. Don’t hurt them.'_

_'I’m not the one hurting here,'_ said the spirit with a dark and almost jovial chuckle. 

The porch creaked under the spirit’s footsteps. He peered inside the window but the curtains were too thick to see anything other than the green fabric of the sofa behind it. The spirit tutted and went to the door handle. 

_'Can you sense what happens here?'_ the spirit asked. 

_'Please. Let’s just go. Lydia and Jackson are hurt. You hurt them.'_

_'They were hurting. Now they are void.'_

The spirit turned the knob but the door was locked. He yanked but it stood firm in its place. He drew a fist back and slammed it into the wood just above the knob. 

A shock of pain coursed through Stiles’ hand and down his arm. He wanted to cry out but his mouth was permanently frozen in a slight frown. If it could even still be called _his_ mouth. 

The wood splintered around the lock and sprung free from the frame. The spirit caught it before it could creak too far open.

The sound of the door was washed out under the sounds of a television. 

_'What do you want with Isaac? He hasn’t-'_

_'He is in pain. I only want to take that from him. We are going to help him.'_

_'Did we help Lydia and Jackson? Is that what you think this is? Helping?'_

The spirit’s lips curled up. He pushed the door open and stepped inside. 

The television was on but with no one to watch it. Beer cans cluttered the little coffee table next to a stack of newspapers. There were a few photos on the wall but none of them appeared recent. All the frames were missing their glass.

“Two hundred dollars, Isaac!” Mr. Lahey’s voice came from down a narrow hall. “Is that too much for your tiny brain to comprehend?” 

“I’m sorry,” was Isaac’s response. “I didn’t – I’m sorry.” 

“Is that all you know how to say? ‘I’m sorry’? Why do you have to keep fucking everything up?” 

“My leg was _broken_ ,” Isaac said. "It wasn’t- I didn’t do that to myself.” 

“It wouldn’t have happened if you learned to keep your mouth shut. You _chose_ to skip classes and be a lazy brat.”

The spirit closed Stiles’ eyes. He inhaled and exhaled slowly. _There is so much pain here._

A sickly feeling crawled up Stiles’ spine. Imaginary spiders crawled over his frozen skin, leaving little pin-pricks over his entire body. 

The spirit moved closer and stepped into the hallway. 

_I don’t like this,_ Stiles thought. _We should call someone._

_'Not until we’re done here.'_

“I didn’t skip I just missed the bus,” said Isaac. “I can’t ride my bike with a broken leg.”

“I am so sick of your excuses. Is that all you know how to do? Make excuses?” 

“No,” said Isaac with a slight tremble in his words. They heard the sound of a chair scraping against the floor and feet shuffling in the room. “I didn’t mean-“ 

“I thought we _had_ this discussion already.”

There was a loud _smash_ and a _bang_. In his corner of their shared mind Stiles winced. 

The spirit moved down the hallway, his bare feet silent as a mouse. He walked down to the only door at the end of the hall. It opened up into a little kitchen. Mr. Lahey stood in the middle with his back to them. In one hand he held a mug. 

White shards of broken ceramic were strewn about the floor where Isaac cowered in the corner. His face was turned away, covered by one hand pressed against his cheek. A small trickle of blood ran down his finger. His narrow shoulders were hunched up protectively over his neck. 

“All you are is a burden,” Lahey seethed. “Skipping classes, hospital bills, always running your mouth. You are nothing like your brother.” 

Isaac curled inwards and whimpered. 

Lahey pulled back the arm holding the mug. 

Stiles’s hand shot out and grasped Lahey’s in a vice-like grip. His fingers dug deep into his sweater. 

Lahey dropped the mug. He turned to face them, his eyes wild and burning with hate. Catching sight of Stiles’ face his pupils widened. He tried to yank his arm away but the spirit’s grip was unrelenting. 

Lahey grunted and gritted his teeth in pain. In that moment Stiles’ couldn’t tell if the pleasure in causing that pain came from the spirit or himself. 

“Who the hell are you?” Lahey asked, his face was red and flushed with anger. “What are you doing in my house?” 

Isaac looked up. His eyes flickered between his dad’s and Stiles’ face. “What are you doing here?” he asked in one breath. He pulled his hand away. A narrow cut split his cheek and his lip was swollen. He brushed aside the ceramic that surrounded him with his foot as if attempting to hide it. 

“You know this freak?” Lahey spat. “Get off me or I’ll call the police.” 

“Stiles, go home. Go home,” Isaac pleaded. Stile stomach churned at the look in Isaac’s eyes. “I don’t know what you think you heard or saw, but-“ 

“Everyone on the whole block can hear it,” the spirit said with a slight tilt of his head. “They just pretend not too.” He released Lahey’s arm in favor of snagging onto his wrist. He jerked it up and bent it back with a sickening ‘snap.’ 

Lahey let out a yell and nearly fell to his knees but the spirit caught hold of his shoulder and kept him up. 

“Stiles, stop! What are you doing?” Isaac stood slowly and took a cautious step away from the wall. His eyes flickered between the unattended hallway and his father. He stepped towards them but a deathly glare from his father sent him scrambling back. 

“You little brat!” Lahey spat through gritted teeth. 

Isaac flinched back and swallowed. 

“What is this shit? Some plan you two thought up? Don’t think I won’t call the police and have both your asses arrested!” 

The spirit’s lips twitched. “Go ahead. What would you say to them? What would they think? Would they really arrest the son of their dead sheriff? What happens if I show them the basement?”

Lahey’s eyes widened. “You don’t – You don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know what lies Isaac has been telling you.” 

“He hasn’t told me anything. I can smell it on you.” The spirit’s fingers dug into Lahey’s shoulder and held him tight. The hand that still grasped his wrist left it in favor of clasping onto his cheek. “It’s stronger than the beer on your breath.” 

Mr. Lahey just stood there with eyes wide behind his glasses. 

The spirit’s nails dug into his skin. His fingernails turned black. 

Black veins appeared on Lahey’s cheek and coursed sickly through him and up the spirit’s arm the same as it had with Lydia and Jackson. 

The spirit gasped and shuddered as a flood of hurt rushed through him. 

_'St-st-sto-…'_ the sensation was too strong for Stiles to even form the thoughts in his mind. He felt himself slip as more and more hatred and fear consumed his body. Some if it may have even been his own. 

When it felt like he would explode the spirit released Lahey. 

The man crumpled to the floor in a huddled heap. His head hit the ground and cracked his glasses. His eyes closed and he let out a small, pained whimper. 

The spirit watched him. He tilted his head to the side. Then turned his eyes to the corner of the room. 

Isaac was on the ground again, curled inwards with his knees drawn up to his trembling lips. His eyes were just beginning to water. 

“What’d you do to my dad?” he asked. He blinked and a tear escaped. 

“It’s alright,” Stiles said softly. “I won’t hurt you.” 

Isaac watched him cautiously as the spirit approached.

The spirit got down onto his knees and held one hand out towards him. “I don’t want to hurt you, Isaac,” he said softly. “Let me see your face, please. That must have hurt.” 

Isaac’s breathing quickened. He pressed his lips tight and eyed the hallway once more. 

“Please, Isaac?” he slowly raised his hand. 

Isaac hesitated. He gave a small, curt nod.

“Thank you,” purred the spirit. He tenderly touched his fingertips to the space just above Isaac’s cut face. It was a shallow cut, but deep enough to leave a tiny trail of blood down his cheek. The spirit pressed it with his thumb, causing Isaac to flinch. 

“Hurts,” he said. His voice was weak. 

“I know,” said the spirit with a small smile. “I’m going to take it all away. All the hurt you ever felt.” 

Isaac’s eyes widened. “N-no, Stiles. Please-“ 

The spirit grasped Isaac’s face and held him still. His nails dug into his cheek just as they had with his father. “Stiles isn’t here.” 

Isaac’s pain was much stronger, sharper, like jagged glass as it forced its way through Stiles’ body. The spirit shuddered again. His eyes rolled up into his head. He breathed heavy as the black veins traveled thick and deep throughout his body. 

“You are in so much pain,” he said with pleasure dripping from his voice. 

Isaac whimpered. His dull eyes focused on something behind them. His lips parted but no words came out. 

“Stiles,” a voice croaked from behind. 

The spirit sighed. He released Isaac. 

Isaac slumped back against the wall. His lips had lost all their pink. Even his cuts were pale. The bruises on the right side of his face that had been hidden when he’d turned away seemed impossibly dark in comparison. 

“You again?” the spirit asked dryly. He stood up and turned to face the voice. 

Lydia staggered through the hallway and leaned against the doorframe. Her red hair hung down over one eye, the other looked at him with a piercing expression. Her lips were tight and resolute. Her left hand pressed to her temple. “Don’t let him control you,” she breathed. “You don’t want this.” 

“It’s too late for that,” said the spirit. “Stiles is mine now.” 

“He’s not yours,” said Lydia. “We’ll save him.” 

“It’s been a while now since I heard his voice,” he said, amused.

Lydia swallowed and took another step. She took a deep breath and opened her mouth to scream. 

The spirit surged forward. He clasped his hands tight around her throat and squeezed. Her skin was almost as cold as his. 

Her breath cut off. Her eyes widened. 

“I don’t like killing people,” said the spirit. “Dead people don’t feel.”

The sound of the kitchen window sliding open made him narrow his eyes. “Try to run all you want, Isaac,” the spirit said. “I’ll find you. I’ll take what should belong to me.”

“I’ve spent my whole life running from monsters like you. Don’t think I’ll be so easy,” a gruff voice answered. 

The spirit got halfway through turning around when something hard and smooth slammed into the back of his skull. He released Lydia with a hiss. A second blow landed and knocked him to the floor. 

Lydia fell down onto her knees beside him. 

“Wait,” she breathed. “Don’t kill him.” 

“I wasn’t planning too,” said the gruff voice. 

A third blow landed and his world went dark.

⋯⊶⋯⊷⋯

Derek dropped the bat he’d found in the yard. He should have known taking a call from Peter was bad news. It inevitably ended with him battered, bruised, and suddenly filled with knowledge of what other murderous creatures existed in the world. Sometimes, he wished he could have been left ignorant.

It was just supposed to be surveillance. Lydia wasn’t supposed to talk to him. Stiles wasn’t supposed to attack. 

He carefully rolled Stiles onto his back with his foot. His eyes were dark and shadowed like a zombie. His skin was pale and through his beta eyes Derek could see his body radiate an unnatural cold. It wasn’t at all what he’d expected He expected a strong, powerful host, not the frail and pale teen only a few years younger than him. 

He crouched down beside the boy-spirit and held his hand over his nose. A tiny puff of barely-warm breath ghosted over his palm. 

“He’s still breathing,” Derek said. “We should move him before he wakes up.” 

The red head on her knees was still gulping down mouthfuls of air. She touched her throat gingerly with one hand. The blonde in the corner shivered and watched him with wide-eyes. His split lip was trembling. The man curled up on the floor was still unconscious, but he appeared to be alive as well. 

“Wh-what’s wrong with Stiles?” asked the boy in the corner. ‘Isaac,’ Lydia had called him. 

“He’s not ‘Stiles’ anymore,” said Derek. “I don’t know how long he’ll stay down for. We need to move him. Do we have some place we can take him?” 

Isaac shook his head. 

“The basement?” Lydia croaked, still rubbing her own throat. “Does this house have a basement?” 

Isaac nodded slowly. “Yes, but-“ 

“We’ll have to put him there for now.” 

Isaac flicked his tongue out over his lips and winced when it touched his cut.

Derek slid his arm underneath Stiles’ body and hefted him up into his arms. He felt several pounds too light for his height.

Lydia stood on shaky legs. “Where’s the basement?” she asked. 

Isaac’s fingers dug into his pantlegs. He didn’t answer her, he just stared at Stiles with open eyes. His heartbeat jumped up. 

“Is this the door to the basement, Isaac?” Lydia asked. She motioned to a little white door on the far side of the kitchen. The paint was peeling away from the frame. 

“Yes,” said Isaac with a swallow. 

Derek went to the door as Lydia pulled it open for him. 

A rushed scent of sweat and salt flooded from the room as the door was pulled open. The staircase was dark and led down into a pitch-black room with must and cobwebs clinging to the few wooden beams visible in the low light. A trail in the dust led from the top stair down to the bottom and disappeared into the shadows with two feet on either side of it like someone being dragged. 

Bile rose to Derek’s throat. A knot formed in his stomach. He kicked the door closed. “Not there,” he said with a shake of his head. “That won’t work.” 

“What?” asked Lydia. “Why not?” 

“It just won’t. We need somewhere else.”

He readjusted Stiles and carried him out into the hallway. The stench of alcohol burned at his nose and there was an underlying aroma of sweat and fear that unnerved him. 

The further he walked the worse it got. It clung to the walls and the flooring. His nose smelled blood both fresh and dry. The teen in his arms wasn’t helping, Peter hadn’t lied when he said the boy smelled like a week-old corpse. He kicked a couple empty beer cans out of the way. 

Lydia tried to follow him but he stopped her in her tracks. 

“No, check on Isaac and … whoever that is on the floor.” Whoever it was it wasn’t his father, even if biologically he should have been. 

Lydia reluctantly returned to the kitchen. He heard her speaking to Isaac in a soft, gentle voice. 

He laid Stiles down on the sofa and brushed some wet hair from his eyes before reaching into his pocket for his phone. 

He dialed Peter’s number but no one answered. He dialed Chris and got the same. 

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.” 

A third and fourth time he tried but still no one picked up. After a few minutes Lydia came back into the living room with Isaac tailing behind her. Her throat was an off-shade of purple and there was a bit of dried blood clinging to her hair. The cut on her head wasn’t too bad, it stopped bleeding at least. 

“Did you call your uncles?” 

Isaac’s heartbeat was still irregular, his face bland and colorless like Stiles’s but at least there was light in his eyes. 

Derek shook his head. “No, they’re still getting the wolf lichen. We need something to bind him with.” 

“I – I think we have something like that,” said Isaac. “Is he okay?” He peered down at Stiles with an unreadable expression. 

“He’s going to be fine,” said Lydia quickly. “Just fine.” 

“We don’t know that,” said Derek. “If you have something bring it to me.” 

Isaac hesitated a moment more before disappearing back down the hallway. 

“You don’t need to say those things,” Lydia said as she ran a hand through her disheveled hair.

“You don’t need to lie,” said Derek. “You shouldn’t have spoken to him. He latched onto your pain like a lamprey. Your ‘boyfriend’ is lucky the Nogitsune didn’t drain him dry. You’re all lucky.” 

“I just wanted to help him. I thought – I thought maybe I could get through to him.” 

“Why? Because you feel bad? You’re going to feel even worse if he dies because of what you did.” 

Lydia cringed. “I just-“ 

“No,” Derek shook his head. “We’re not arguing. Not in front of him.”

Lydia pressed her lips together. “Alright.” Her shoulders sagged. 

“You should go check on Jason.” 

“Jackson.” 

“Jackson, whatever.”

“Don’t you need me here?” 

“There’s nothing you can do. If Peter doesn’t call me back I’ll take him back to my house. That’s probably where they’ll want him anyways.”

“I’m coming back,” she said. “After I check on Jackson.” 

“Fine,” said Derek. “Do what you want.” 

He turned back to Stiles. The door opened and shut as Lydia left. A few moments later he heard Isaac’s rabbit heartbeat as he approached. 

He turned around to see Isaac holding a pair of electrical cords. “I-I found these,” he said. 

Derek’s stomach tightened that it was the first thing Isaac thought to bring when he heard the word ‘binding.’ Most people would have gone for duct tape or even rope, not electrical cords. He didn’t want to know how Isaac learned that. 

Still, he took the cords and crouched beside Stiles’ as he bound his thin wrists together. His pulse was frighteningly weak. He grabbed the blanket from the back of the coach and tucked it around his body in hopes that it might warm him up a bit. 

“How is your …?” Derek left the question hanging and hoped Isaac would understand. 

“He’s okay,” said Isaac. “I’ve seen him go down harder. What – Why – what’s going on?” 

Derek finished knotting the cords and gave an experimental tug to ensure they were secure. A small part of him worried he really had killed the poor kid. 

“Stiles is … He’s not well. We’re going to try to help him but it’s going to take some time and I need my uncle and his – and Chris before we can do anything.” 

“He drew something out of me,” Isaac said. “Out of my body.” 

“He took your pain, fear. Anything bad inside of you he took it.” 

“Why does Stiles want those things?” 

Derek busied himself by feeling Stiles’ forehead and wiping some of the sweat from his brow with a few of the paper towels that lay beside the couch in a box of cleaning supplies. Peter and Chris always explained the supernatural, not him. He opted for the blunt approach. 

“Because that’s not Stiles. He’s a Nogitsune using Stiles as a puppet.” 

“A Nogitsune?” 

“Yes. They’re spirits who feed off negativity and chaos.” 

“Stiles is an evil spirit?” 

“No, he’s just possessed by one.”

“Oh,” breathed Isaac. The events of the past hour finally seemed to catch up with him as he took a deep breath and then dropped onto his knees beside the couch. They sat in silence beside each other until finally the front door swung open again. 

Lydia furrowed her brow down at the little phone in her hand. “He won’t call me back,” she said. “He’s not answering his phone and his car’s gone from the driveway.” 

“Fantastic,” said Derek. “Any idea where he went?” 

“His friend Danny’s, most likely. Jackson always answers his phone. Well, most of the time.” She fidgeted with the device in her hands, clicking and tapping at the screen with anxious twitches of her slender fingers. 

“It’s alright,” said Derek. “I’m sure he’ll turn up. Right now, we have to figure out what to do with _him_. I could take him to my old place, it’s not as good as Argent’s but it should be enough until he and my uncle get back from Ikeda’s.” 

“I want to go with you,” said Lydia. 

“Fine,” said Derek. “But call Danny first. Call anyone Jackson might go to. Tell them to message you if he shows.” 

Lydia slipped out the front door once again with the phone already pressed to her ear and her lips pressed into a tight line. 

Derek turned to Isaac who sat listlessly beside him. Isaac looked so vulnerable sitting there with his eyes wide and his knees drawn up to his chest like a child. 

“I need to know now,” Derek said in a low voice so Lydia wouldn’t overhear. “I saw what that man did to you. Does that happen a lot?”

Isaac cringed. He lowered his head and averted his eyes. It was all the answer Derek needed. The blood from his cut still clung to the side of his face though his cheek and lip both stopped bleeding. 

“Isaac.” 

Isaac looked back at him. 

“Do you have somewhere you can stay? Somewhere that isn’t here? Do you have any friends or a relative?” 

“No,” said Isaac. “Everyone at school stays away from me. My mom’s dead. My brother’s dead too. My dad scares away anyone who tries to come by.” 

“I live alone,” Derek said. “I don’t have much but you can have my couch, for a little while at least.”

Isaac opened his mouth to respond but he clamped it shut when the door swung open again. 

“Well Danny doesn’t know where Jackson is either but he said he’d call me if he showed up.” 

“Alright,” said Derek. “I’ll need one of you two to sit in the back of the car with Stiles and tell me if he starts waking up.” 

“Isaac’s coming with?” Lydia’s eyes widened slightly. “I don’t know that that’s-“

“Are you?”

Isaac looked between them. “Yeah," he said. "I’m coming.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains child abuse between Isaac Lahey and his father as well as canon typical violence, so be warned. It’s a dark one.
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading and commenting n.n


	6. Chapter 6

An uneasy feeling crawled up Derek’s spine as he drove through the quiet streets of Beacon Hills. Stiles was bundled into the back seat, still and unmoving, but that didn’t mean the dark spirit inside of him wasn’t awake and aware behind his closed lids. The cold fingers of the spirit may have already slipped out from its host to wrap around his mind and probe his mind for insecurity and doubt, covertly gorging itself on his anxieties. 

He gripped the steering wheel tighter and focused his eyes on the road ahead. The heartbeats of his fellow passengers were loud in his ear. 

Isaac was silent from the moment he got off the phone with the police dispatcher. He said his father fell down the steps into the basement. It wasn’t easy to move him down there by himself but Derek didn’t have the heart to ask Isaac and asking Lydia wasn’t an option. He wasn’t about to show her something Isaac clearly wished would be forgotten. 

Isaac slumped against the passenger side window with his head on his hand and blank eyes watching the street lights pass. The moon was bright overhead, only a tiny sliver of white missing from the edges. Tomorrow night the moon would be full and hopefully, the Nogitsune would be dead. 

Lydia whispered quiet words of comfort to the unconscious figure bundled in a blanket beside her. She brushed her hand over Stiles’ forehead and kept him from rolling off the seat whenever they came to a stop. He hadn’t come to yet, he hadn’t even moved. 

His thoughts were interrupted by the repetitive blaring of his cell phone in the cup holder. The car dashboard was lit up with a faint blue of his home screen. He never got around to changing the picture from the default. 

He picked it up and pressed it to his ear. “Peter?” 

“No,” came Chris’s voice on the other end. “What happened?” 

“The Nogitsune tried attacking the neighbor kid and his dad. We got him before he could kill anyone but it definitely did some damage.” 

“Is he alive?” 

“Yes.” 

“What condition is he in?” 

“Breathing but he hasn’t woken up. Where’s Peter?” 

“He’s shifted. Where are you now?” 

“Heading towards the old house.” 

“Alright. Peter and I aren’t too far off. We’ll meet up with you as soon as we can. Stay safe.” 

“You too.” 

Derek shut off the phone and dropped it back in the cup holder. 

“Who was that?” asked Isaac.

“His name’s Chris.”

“What’d he say?” asked Lydia. 

“Take him to the house. They’ll be down soon.” 

“What are you going to do with Stiles?” Isaac asked, his heart fluttering for a second. In his periphery, Derek saw him turn his head and peer cautiously at the unconscious boy behind him. 

“We’re going to save him,” said Lydia. “We have too.” Her heart blipped. 

As they left the well-lit streets of suburbia and traveled down dark and heavily wooded paths Isaac became noticeably more active. He dropped his listless posture in favor of sitting up and staring out the tinted window with one hand pressed to the glass. The car rumbled and protested the dirt roads but it was well equipped to handle the less than ideal terrain. 

The scent of charred wood filled his nose as he rolled up to the blackened walls of his former house. Though he knew the fire had long since passed, the way the scents of char and water damaged walls mingled in the air and rose his hackles every time. 

He killed the engine and stepped out of the vehicle. The cool night air brushed over his face. He heard Isaac clambering out of the passenger side as he went to the back seat.

Lydia looked up at him as he opened the door. Her lip wasn’t bleeding any longer but the bruise around her throat was darker. Without the rosy tint to her cheeks she looked like a ghost. A ghost that had been strangled to death. 

She didn’t say anything as Derek leaned inside and placed his hand to Stiles’ forehead. His brow was covered in sweat and hot like a fever while the rest of his body was just as cold as before. His breath came out slow and shallow. 

“He stopped shivering,” said Lydia. “That’s not a good sign, is it?” 

“I honestly don’t know,” said Derek. “It might mean his fever’s close to breaking.” He wedged his arms underneath Stiles’ wrapped body and lifted him out of the vehicle. His head lolled pathetically to the side as he was held bridal style in Derek’s arms. His nose pressed against Derek’s shoulder. 

“Is this place safe?” asked Isaac. He hovered beside the porch with his hands in his pockets. “My brother said some drunks lit it on fire a few years ago.” 

Derek swallowed down a lump in his throat. “It’s safe,” was all he said. 

The porch creaked as he stepped onto it. He’d propped up most of them by shoving cinderblocks underneath but it didn’t stop them from bending a little with each step. “Open the door, someone. Please.” 

There was silence for several seconds, then the quiet rustling of Lydia coming forward to turn the knob. 

The door groaned as it swung open to the empty hallways inside. A faint beam of moonlight poured in from what had once been a large window on the top floor. Now it was just a bit of broken glass licked black and brown by flames.

Derek walked through the hallways which were littered with debris instead of toys and leafs instead of carpeting. He passed by the crumbling ruin of what had once been his mom’s favorite cabinet. Most of the pictures inside melted or burned away but he managed to save a few. He walked slower than usual to give Lydia and Isaac a chance to follow at a safe pace. 

Isaac stuck to him like a limpet, refusing to stray more than a step behind. “Are you sure this is safe?” he whispered. “Someone could be living here.” 

“No one is living here,” said Derek. 

“ _Someone_ is living here.” He quirked his head towards a pile of blankets on top of a tattered sofa in the living room. An empty energy drink lay on its side just below it. 

“There should be a flashlight,” Derek said, “in the kitchen somewhere. I think it’s in one of the cabinets. Have Lydia help you find it.” 

“Will you be okay with-?” Lydia asked. 

“Fine,” said Derek. “Just find the light.” 

He shifted Stiles’ in his arms and made his way further into the place. He couldn’t in his right mind refer to it as a house, but it would forever be his home. He heard the cabinet doors open and shut. The thought crossed his mind to go back and warn them not to touch anything, to just go home, call a cab, do something, but Isaac had nowhere to go and Lydia would come sneaking back inside. He just hoped they had enough decency not to stick their hands where they didn’t belong. 

The door to the basement was already half open. The wind and rain warped the frame so that a strong enough breeze could cause it to come ajar once again. Only the front door had been repaired enough that it stayed firm in its frame. He kicked the basement door open a little more and descended the steps down into the musty, cobweb covered cellar. 

The light disappeared at the bottom of the stairs. Even the moon didn’t reach down into the depths of the concrete basement. The fire had been started there but the stone and concrete kept it from spreading. Instead, it licked up the side of the house and tore through the windows splashed with gasoline and broken with bricks. 

Stiles’ body twitched. His head moved a little. A quiet groan slipped from his mouth.

Derek relied only on his ears and nose as he walked through pitch black darkness to a little space along the far back wall. It was where he and many of their shifter relatives spent their first full moon. 

He set Stiles’ down on some wooden planks that covered a rusty bed frame, blanket and all. A chain was wound around one of the rails which he hastily wrapped around Stiles’ ankle. It was heavy and tight but not enough that it dug into his skin. If he hadn’t been able to escape from it in full shift he highly doubted a Nogitsune could. As he wrapped the chain he noticed that Stiles’ shoeless feet still had little bits of gravel sticking into them. Internally he winced. 

He checked to make sure the Nogitsune’s eyes were still closed before he picked the embedded chunks out as carefully as he could. Derek wiped away the blood with his thumb as it appeared. He couldn’t imagine being that fragile, knowing that all those little cuts and scrapes were there for however long it took for them to heal. If he understood the extent of the Nogitsune’s powers he would have tried to drain his pain, but at present, it was just too risky. 

When he was finished he grabbed the blanket and repositioned it around Stiles’ frail body, only in part to keep him warm. It felt like covering a corpse as he pulled it up over the boy’s head. 

“D-Derek?” came Isaac’s voice from upstairs. “We found the flashlight. Where are you?” 

A golden rod of light washed through the basement. Derek winced as it burned his eyes and turned his head away. 

“Down here,” he shouted back. He stepped away from the bed and into the light so they could see him. 

Lydia and Isaac hovered in the doorway, their silhouettes outlined with moon silver. Isaac held the flashlight in one hand and shined it around the basement floor. It was mostly empty save for a few books and a couple energy bar wrappers. 

Behind him, Derek heard a soft groan. The blanket moved in jerks and twitches. 

Lydia tentatively stepped forward. 

“Don’t come down,” said Derek. “I’ll come up.” 

“I want to check on Stiles,” she said. 

“We don’t know which ‘Stiles’ we’re going to get.” Even as he said the words Stiles’ heartbeat quickened behind him. It was still only a feeble thing he had to strain to hear, but it was getting faster. 

“Is he going to be alright down there?” asked Isaac. He squinted his eyes at the darkness the flashlight couldn’t bide. 

“He’ll be okay,” said Derek. “Peter will be here soon.” 

A quiet, rasping whimper sent a tingling up his spine. He stiffened his shoulders and walked away from the boy. He cast one look back as he put foot on the first step.

The blanket writhed like an earthworm. A pale hand slid out from fabric. Derek kept his eyes on the corner of the room as he moved up the stairs, never letting it out of his sight until he passed through the doorway.

“You okay?” asked Lydia. 

“I’m fine,” said Derek. He was at least better than the pair before him. Even Isaac, who’s movements up until that point had been quick and twitching had let his arms hang down at his sides, the flashlight dangling in his hand. Both fought back the heavy lidding of their eyes. “That thing, it’s not normal.” 

Lydia picked at the fabric of her sweater. “You think – he’ll be fine, right?” She looked at the basement and then back at Derek. 

He didn’t know what to tell her. Stiles was freezing, he looked more corpse than human, and the Nogitsune had said Stiles wasn’t there anymore. 

“If anyone can help him it’s Peter and Chris,” he said slowly. “As soon as they get here I’m taking you home.” 

Lydia furrowed her brows. “I need-“ 

“You need to go home and get your head checked out. There’s nothing more you can do here. You’re just one more person for the Nogitsune to prey on.”

“Guys. There’s someone driving up the road.” Isaac stood in front of what remained of the living room window. He shined his light outside the house towards the Camero. The Tahoe that was fast approaching. 

“Good,” said Derek. “Wait in here. I need to speak to them.”

To his relief, no one protested.

He got outside just as Chris slammed the Tahoe door shut. In his gloved hand, he held a bag of neon green moss.

Peter climbed out of the backseat wearing only pants and holding his shirt in one hand. He pulled his shirt on over his head and tugged it down to his waist. 

“Peter,” said Derek.

Peter looked up. His eyes flashed crimson red. 

“Derek,” said Chris. “Are you okay? Who was hurt?” 

“Mr. Lahey, one of Lydia’s neighbors. His son was – he was hurt too but he’s okay. We called an ambulance for his father. It’s taken care of.”

“Good,” said Chris. He looked back towards the house. “Where is the Nogitsune?” 

“The basement. He was starting to wake up when we got here. Can you save him?” 

“We’ll try,” said Chris. “The lichen will poison the spirit. If Stiles isn’t too far gone it shouldn’t do anything to him.”

Peter’s nostrils flared. “Is there someone else here?”

“Lydia and Isaac,” said Derek. “Isaac is-“ 

“One of them is in the basement.” 

Derek growled. “Lydia.” 

Peter snarled and pushed past him to the house. Derek followed right on his trail down the creaking steps into the depths. The glow from the flashlight, abandoned on the floor illuminated their way. 

“Lydia? Where’s-?” he heard Chris shout from behind them. 

Derek’s stomach twisted into a knot. 

“Wh- he said he was going to check on you guys! He went into the hallway, I don’t-” 

A flurry of footsteps came down the stairs behind Derek and Peter. 

“Isaac!” Derek shouted.

The Nogitsune stood, it’s leg freed from the chain that bound it. It didn’t look human anymore. Its eyes were glazed with white and the teeth that poked out over his bottom lip were sharp. It’s right hand gripped Isaac’s wrist and dug dirty black nails into his flesh. 

Isaac lay slumped against the wall. His mouth gaping open like a fish. His chest pounded and his eyes were wild with fear.

The Nogitsune was so busy feeding it didn’t notice them rushing in. His head whipped up when Peter snarled. It released Isaac’s arm and let out a hiss of its own showing off the full row of teeth, far too many for a human. 

Isaac fell to the ground. He gasped and curled inwards like his father had. 

Chris drew his gun and pointed it at Stiles’ forehead. 

“Don’t shoot him!” Derek snapped.

The Nogitsune’s eyes turned back to brown. The sharp teeth rescinded. “Wh-what?” his voice croaked. “No, no. Don’t shoot me!” he raised his hands up. “Please, please don’t shoot me!”

Chris swallowed. “Step away from him.” 

“Okay, okay, okay!” The Nogitsune, or Stiles, scrambled back towards the bed. “Just don’t shoot. Please, please, please don’t shoot!” His eyes watered. He lowered his arms and wrapped them around his torso tight. “Lydia, help,” he looked at her with pleading eyes as his lips quivered. 

“Do not shoot Stiles!” Lydia demanded, her own eyes beginning to water. “Do not shoot him, Chris!” 

“I don’t want to shoot Stiles,” said Chris. “But that _thing_ isn’t Stiles.” His eyes stayed trained on the boy in front of him. He held the gun steady in his hand. 

“Yes, I am. I swear to god, I am Stiles. God, please don’t shoot me. I don’t want to get shot again.” He whimpered and fell back against the wall. 

“Derek,” Chris said slowly. “The wolf lichen is by my feet. I need you to get it and put it in a circle around Stiles.” 

Derek grabbed the bag. 

Stiles’ watched him the entire time, ignoring the gun in Chris’s hand in favor of the lichen. 

“I-is that going to h-hurt me?” 

“You? Yes. Stiles? No.” 

Stiles breathing quickened. His heartbeat was fast. Weak as it was it still managed to sound loud in Derek’s ear. 

Peter moved towards Isaac, who still lay shivering on the ground near the Nogitsune’s feet. He grabbed him by the shoulders and started to pull him back. 

As Isaac was dragged he jerked suddenly and started to cough. A single black fly flew from his mouth. It moved in zigzags back towards the Nogitsune but Peter snatched it with one hand and crushed it in his palm with a snarl. When he uncurled his fingers a layer of inky black clung to it. He wiped it on the wall, leaving a shining black trail smeared down the side. 

“Don’t let them hurt me, Lydia,” whimpered the Nogitsune. 

“I won’t, I promise. Chris, please, just lower the gun okay?” she begged. 

“Lydia that’s not your friend. It’s a monster.”

“Please, Chris. There might be something left inside of him.” 

“Lydia, shut up!” snapped Peter. “You’re giving that thing something to feed on. Is that what you want? You think standing there panicking is going to help?” 

Lydia winced. 

Derek reached into the bag and grabbed a fistful of the lichen. An unpleasant tingling went through his skin as he touched it. He threw it down haphazardly in a half circle around the Nogitsune, starting at the right wall and slowly expanding it to the left. 

The Nogitsune stood trembling the entire time until the circle was almost complete, then it rushed forward. It dashed past Derek, and Peter who was tending to Isaac on the ground. It raced towards a small window in the corner of the basement. 

Derek roared and abandoned the bag on the floor. He chased after the spirit and threw all his weight against him in a tackle. They hit the ground hard enough to knock the wind out of Derek’s chest. 

The Nogitsune howled and twisted over onto its back. He glared at Derek with white, piercing eyes. Its clawed hands dug into his shoulders as it attempted to wretch itself free. 

Derek hissed as pain coursed through him. A dizzying sensation of everything flowing backward through his body made his head swim. 

“I will bite off his tongue and he will choke and drown in his own blood!” the Nogitsune hissed. His eyes glazed over with a milky white film. “Is that what you want? To see this boy’s eyes cold and dead for good?” 

“Do you want me to rip your teeth out for good?” Peter snarled.

Chris pulled something from his pocket as he approached and crouched down by Derek’s side. In his hand, he held a needle which he unceremoniously plunged into the Nogitsune’s neck. 

The Nogitsune gasped, giving Derek a good view of the pointed tongue inside. Its milky eyes faded to brown as the clawed fingers in Derek’s shoulders trembled and came loose. 

Derek scrambled off him as Peter grabbed the Nogitsune’s left arm and Chris grabbed the right. They hauled him up onto his feet. The Nogitsune stumbled and fell against Peter’s chest. 

“What’d you do to him?” Derek asked as he sat on the ground. 

“Kanima venom,” said Chris.

“Why didn’t you just do that when you got here?” 

“Not like I could throw it at him.” 

“Peter as he scooped his arms under the Nogitsune’s legs and lifted him up into his arms. “I say that I bite the little bastard and we be done with this here and now.”

Chris sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “The bite is more dangerous. He would have to survive having the Nogitsune ripped out of him and then survive the bite. There’s two chances for death. At least with the lichen, we know it’ll just target the Nogitsune.” 

“But he might still die if he and the Nogitsune are too intertwined,” said Peter. 

“That’s a risk we’ll have to take.”

Derek sighed and looked around. 

Isaac was still on the ground but he was slowly uncurling himself. Lydia sat by his side, her whole body shaking with adrenaline or fear, Derek didn’t know.

“I think I should take these two home,” he said, quirking his head towards Isaac and Lydia. 

“They shouldn’t have been here in the first place,” Chris said. “What were you thinking?” 

“I couldn’t just leave them behind.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “They were upset, and panicking, and-“ 

“And giving the Nogitsune power?” 

Derek narrowed his eyes. 

Chris sighed and rubbed his hand over his nape. He relaxed his shoulders and softened his gaze by a minuet degree. “I’m glad you’re all okay, Derek, but they could have been hurt. Isaac _was_ hurt.” 

“Which is why I’m taking them home.” 

“Alright,” said Chris. “Let me know that you all get home safe. I need to go get some things to make the wolf lichen usable anyways.” 

“It’s not ready?” 

“No. It has to be in liquid form for us to inject it. Making him swallow it would just make him vomit.” 

“Then I’ll stay here, with Peter,” said Derek. “You can take Lydia and Isaac back.”

“It’ll only be for an hour at most,” said Peter. “The Kanima venom will have him paralyzed.” 

“Right,” said Chris. “It’d just take me longer to get the things I need, anyways.” 

“Okay,” Derek agreed reluctantly. “Just call me if something happens?” 

“We always do,” said Peter. He laid the Nogitsune’s body back down on the planks and finished the circle of wolf lichen around him. 

Derek helped Isaac slowly up to his feet. He was still conscious, his body cold, but the light was slowly returning to his eyes. “Thanks,” he mumbled as Derek helped him towards the staircase. 

Lydia, at last, seemed to have abandoned all desire to be anywhere near him. She took a deep breath and headed back up the stairs without another word, only a few anxious glances back towards the Nogitsune. 

“What happened?” Derek asked in a quiet voice when Lydia was too far ahead to overhear, and Peter and Chris were too preoccupied to listen. 

“I thought, I thought I heard him crying. He was down there … he was all alone … I just … I don’t know,” he shook his head and winced. “He was just using me.” 

“He used everybody,” said Derek. “If he hadn’t targeted you he would have gone after Lydia, or me.” 

“Do you think she knows?” he asked in a low tone. “About – About my… ?”

It took Derek a second to piece together what he was asking. “No,” he said. “I don’t plan on telling her but someone should know.” 

“I _can’t_ ,” he croaked. 

“Okay,” he said. “It doesn’t have to be today. Think about it.”

Isaac nodded. He looked back towards the house and the basement. “Can I still go back with you?” he asked. 

“Yeah,” said Derek. “But it’s going to be a lot more of this,” he waved to the burnt-out house and cars parked carelessly on the grass. 

“You mean, people who protect each other? I think I can handle that,” a small smile forced its way onto Isaac’s face.

He helped Isaac into the backseat. He settled against the window with his head propped against the glass and his feet laying on the seat next to him. His skin was nearly as cold as Stiles. 

Lydia looked back at them from the passenger seat. “Peter’s coming,” she said. “He wants to talk to you.” 

“What?” 

Lydia didn’t respond. She slumped forward in her seat and wrapped her arms tight around herself. Her feet, just as uncovered as Stiles’, rested against the front of the car with her toes curled and the bottoms of her feet coated in a layer of dust. 

Derek closed the door and straightened up. He averted his eyes from the house and stared out into the heavily shadowed forest. The moon was just beginning to set behind the tree line. 

“Derek,” Peter said from behind him. “We need to talk.” 

“Is that really something you want to do right now?” 

“Soon.” 

“I’m fine, Peter.” 

“You’re not. We need to discuss it.” 

“I’m taking Lydia and Isaac home.”

“I won’t forget.” 

“Really? You forget lots of things.” His hands curled tight and shoved them into his jacket pocket. The points of his growing claws dug into his palm. 

He expected a snap or a snarl, instead he got several seconds of cold silence. “I never forgot you.” 

“I wasn’t talking about me.” 

“Then what _were_ you talking about?”

“Peter!” Chris’s voice came from inside the house. “I need your help.” 

Derek furrowed his brows and dug his shoe into the dirt. 

Peter sighed. “We’re finishing this conversation.” 

Derek didn’t respond. He waited to turn around until he was absolutely certain Peter was gone. He didn’t want him to see the way his eyes were shining beta blue. 

Lydia said nothing when he climbed into the car. Isaac was already asleep in the backseat.

As he drove away, gravel crunching under his tires he noticed a pair of glowing eyes watching him from the living room window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again thank you for all the wonderful comments n.n they are very motivating.


	7. Chapter 7

The scent of Derek was on every surface in the old Hale house. His footsteps made a trail in the dust that spread through every room and corridor. The upper floors were riddled with holes and debris but even there his scent was strong and his footsteps were clear.

After he finished wiping down the upstairs Peter picked up the empty cans and half-eaten bags of chips littering the basement. He dumped them all in one corner so he could dispose of them later. He remembered getting after Derek for leaving his cans out when he’d been a child too, back when Derek had still been wide-eyed and cheeky-grinned. He’d had an attitude bigger than Peter’s but his heart was bigger too.

He felt like shit for not seeing the signs. He always found Derek sulking around the preserve, smelling of river water and recent kills. The dusty smell of his former home would be near invisible underneath the scent of blood and raw meat.

“Are you going to be alright here by yourself?” Chris asked. He’d finished arranging the wolf lichen in a thick circle around the Nogitsune.

The spirit watched them through the deep brown eyes of his host. Aside from his head turning ever so slightly in Chris’s direction he remained perfectly still, the Kanima venom still coursing strong through his veins. The flies lay docile on his chest. A single insect crawled across his cheek. The spirit’s eyes never blinked, not for a second. His mouth was still as well, but Peter knew malevolent thoughts were ticking away inside his head.

“I’ll be fine,” said Peter. He picked up the blanket Derek stashed away in the corner and brushed off some of the black hairs clinging to it. At least the blanket was new and wasn’t some half-burnt thing Derek had scavenged from the rooms left to rot. He couldn’t stop the emotions bubbling through his chest but he could keep them at a soft trickle until he had a chance to deal with them. The last thing he wanted was for his love for Derek to be fuel in the Nogitsune’s fire.

He hated watching Derek drive away. He hated the way their conversations were intermingled with curt words and a sense of distance that hadn’t been there, not before the fire. Reaching out to him never felt so stilted. _You forget lots of things,_ the words echoed in his head.

“If you’d rather go to the house I can stay here.” Chris stood from the ground and brushed some dirt from his pants.

“You mean if I’d rather go find Derek? No, he’s right. This is something we can deal with when _that_ is dead.”

The spirit’s lips twitched but he didn’t make a sound.

Chris wrapped up the remaining wolf lichen and handed it to Peter. “Are you sure? I don’t mind.” He laid his hand on Peter’s bicep and squeezed.

“You do mind,” Peter said with a small smile. He tucked the lichen into his pocket. Most of what was left was a soft, powdery substance. “It’ll just be for an hour. I think I can handle things until then. You go run on your merry way.”

Chris’s eyes softened. “Alright,” he said. “Be safe.”

“I always am.”

They leaned close and pressed their lips together. Chris’s hand on his arm slid up to his shoulder and lightly thumbed over his clothes. The taste of his morning coffee lingered in his breath.

Peter put his arm around Chris and dug his fingers into the back of his jacket.

A sharp gag from behind forced them to separate.

The Nogitsune crinkled its nose and looked at them with disgust. “Gross,” it said in the cadence of a bratty teen. For a moment, it sounded like Stiles.

Peter snarled. “Have something to say about it?”

“Don’t,” said Chris. He pressed another kiss to Peter’s cheek and let his hand fall away from his shoulder. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Please,” said Peter. “I’ll try not to stab it while you’re gone.”

He watched Chris as he climbed the rickety stairs back up into the main house. As soon as his footsteps turned into the dull crunching of leaves outside Peter was hit with just how dark the basement really was.

Isaac’s flashlight remained the only source of illumination aside from little strands of moonlight sneaking in through a slate in the far wall.

“You’re going to lose him, you know,” the spirit said.

“I highly doubt that. After all, we’ve been through one little spirit, stuck in the body of a teenager, isn’t going to separate us. Chris and I-“

The spirit laughed. “ _Chris._ You’re so fixated. It’s no wonder Derek despises you. I could feel his hatred for your partner. It’s leaking over, that hate, onto you.”

“Try harder, little spirit. Your words are meaningless.” 

“Little? I am a _thousand_ years your senior.”

“And soon Chris and I are going to kill you. Together.”

The spirit’s mouth widened into an unsightly grin with the tips of his pointed teeth poking over his pale pink lips. “The only one you’re killing is Stiles. He’d make a better puppet than a host, anyways. Piloting a corpse isn’t as fluid, the rot starts to get to you, but he won’t have any objections once he’s dead.”

“And how easy it to ‘pilot’ something that’s been burnt to a crisp?”

“You should know.” The spirit’s eyes followed the scorch marks from the edge of the little slat in the wall down over the cellar walls and up to where it licked the ceiling. “This place does look like a tomb, doesn’t it? ‘Derek’ is right to use it as one. He even brought his own burial shroud.”

“One more word about Derek and I’ll cut out your tongue.”

“Ah yes, do that. Stiles will choke on his own blood and I’ll get his body to myself that much faster.”

“Then I’ll stuff your mouth with lichen. Now shut up.”

The light, musical cadence of the possessed boy’s voice intermixed with the natural rasping of the monster controlling him to create a discordant noise like that of an untuned piano as he laughed again.

Peter’s fingers twitched to take those vocal cords from him. Before he could so much as poke the wicked thing Peter’s phone started to vibrate in his pocket. He pulled it out. Derek’s name and the picture of a black wolf with blue eyes flashed on the screen.

“Everything okay?” he asked as he turned away from the spirit. He ascended the staircase followed by a dozen or so little black flies.

“Lydia won’t go home.”

“Figures. Why not?”

“She says something bad is going to happen soon. She doesn’t know what but she can hear sirens. She says there’s going to be blood.”

“Blood and sirens. Fantastic. What about the other one?”

“He’s safe.”

“Cryptic. Where is he? Is he alright?”

“At a friend’s house. He’s fine. I wasn’t going to take him back to his dad’s.”

“Where are you now?”

“Heading back up.”

“No. Don’t.”

There was silence on the other end for several seconds. “You want me to leave you alone with that thing?”

“No,” said Peter, “I think the fewer people around it the better. Lydia’s not exactly the most stable person at the moment, and no offense neither are you.”

“I can’t just stay home while you and Chris are dealing with that thing by yourselves.”

“We’ve dealt with a lot of them by ourselves, Derek.”

“You shouldn’t,” he snapped. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

“We will talk about this another time,” Peter said firmly. “If you have to come up here then fine, but you need to control yourself. Tell Lydia the second she raises her voice I’m dragging her home myself.”

“Fine,” Derek grunted. “We’ll be there in less than fifteen.”

Peter sighed. “Okay. Be careful.”

“I’ll see you soon.” Derek hung up without another word.

Peter slid the phone back into his pocket and leaned against the door with a heavy sigh and closed his eyes, grateful for the momentary silence.

Silence.

His eyes popped open again. The flies were gone. There was no buzzing or humming by his ears, their little bodies weren’t swimming in front of his face. His heart plummeted. He turned around and yanked the door open once more.

The basement was quiet. A plank of wood had been ripped from the bed and used to shove the lichen away, effectively breaking the circle. Half of Stiles’ body was sticking out from the little slat that made for a basement window. In his right hand he held a cell phone, and in his left he held something sharp that reflected in the light of the moon.

The spirit’s head whipped up. Its eyes were glassy and clouded with white. It hissed through sharpened teeth.

“He’s back!” Stiles’ rasped. “Come get me, Jordan. Please! He’s going to kill me!” 

“ _Stiles?_ ” the voice on the other end of the phone shouted. _”Stiles! Stay on the line!”_

The spirit dropped the cell phone. The name ‘Deputy Parrish’ lit up on the screen along with a timer for how long the call had been going. Only thirty seconds. The Nogitsune kicked and struggled, clambering at the ground outside to force his narrow frame through the slat. Inch by inch he started slithering through.

“No!” Peter roared. He bounded down the steps and clawed at Stiles’ legs. He wrapped his arms around one of them and held on tight. He yanked Stiles back, his belly scraping across the grate as he was pulled into the basement.

“Let go!” the spirit flipped onto his back. He stabbed down at Peter’s arms with the object in his right hand. Sharp, stinging pain exploded from Peter’s arms as the spirit stabbed at his arms again and again with his unknown weapon.

Peter gritted his teeth and tried to hold on even as hot blood leaked down his arm. The wounds were already healing just as quickly as they’d been made.

The spirit raised his weapon high and stabbed down hard to embedded the weapon deep into the back of Peter’s hand. It cut through the flesh and muscle clean to poke through the other side.

Peter gasped and unwillingly released his hold. A sizeable chunk of glass was sticking out of his hand. He grasped it, fingers slipping on the sharpened edges and yanked it out. It shattered when he tossed it to the ground.

In the time it took the spirit managed to writhe entirely through the hole. He caught a glimpse of the demonic grin spreading on its inhumane face before it stood and began running back towards the woods.

Peter grunted and held his hand tight. He ran back up the staircase, taking them two at a time as he went. There was no way he could slither through the slat the way Stiles’ slim form could. He rounded the house and ran in the direction he’d seen the spirit go. The scent of rot guided his movements through the thick trees.

The spirit was faster than he should have been, faster than any human should have been  
but Peter was gaining on him.

Loud sirens blared in the distance and grew ever closer. He didn’t have time to make sense of them. All that mattered was getting Stiles.

He tackled the Nogitsune to the ground just as they broke out onto the road. Dirt flew up around them. The spirit went limp beneath him and curled up. A strangled noise escaped his throat. “Help!” he cried out in a simpering tone.

Peter snarled and dug his claws in deep into the Nogitsune’s shoulders.

“Freeze!”

Peter looked up. The hair that sprouted from his ears retracted. His flashing eyes faded to their natural blue.

A blonde man in a deputy’s uniform levied a gun at his face. Behind him were two police cars with a woman standing in front of the second. If they noticed his supernatural appearance they didn’t show a reaction to it.

“Let go of Stiles!” the man shouted. He took a cautious step forward. He trained his weapon directly on Peter’s face. “Do it now!”

“Jordan help,” the spirit whimpered. He turned his face up. His eyes were already coated in tears. “He wants to kill me. Help me.”

Peter slowly retracted his claws from Stiles’ shoulders. The deputy’s heartbeats were loud in his ear. They stared at him with equal determination to shoot.

He raised his hands slowly above his head and backed away from the Nogitsune.

The Nogitsune scrambled to his feet. He limped and clasped his hand to his arm as though it were injured and flung himself towards the woman. “Help me, Tara! He’s mad at my dad for not catching the guy who burned his house down. Now he’s after me. Please, please help me. Why does everyone want to kill me?”

“Oh, baby,” the woman wrapped an arm around Stiles’ and hugged him tight to her breast while keeping her gun aimed towards Peter.

“Peter Hale you are under arrest for kidnapping and attempted murder.”

“You don’t understand-“

“You have the right to remain silent! Anything you say can and _will_ be held against you in a court of law!” A fly crawled on the deputies shoulder.

“Just let me explain,” breathed Peter.

“He attacked me and Mr. Lahey! H-He broke into the Whittemore’s house. I ran to the Lahey’s house to get help but h-he followed me there. It’s all my fault.” The spirit wrapped his arms tight around the deputy and held her tight. “It’s all my fault Mr. Lahey i-is-“

“Shh, shhh,” the woman comforted. “It’s okay, sweetie, I’ve got you now. Mr. Lahey’s going to be just fine.”

“Put your arms behind your back and lay on the ground! Do it now!”

Peter could outrun them, but if they shot him and he lived … He couldn’t risk leading them back to Derek. He would be there soon and he would try to defend them both. He didn’t know how far the Nogitsune would go, how many people he would hurt, to protect his own freedom.

He slowly did as the deputy said.

A pair of tight handcuffs were slapped on his wrists so hard they felt like they were about to break skin. He was hauled back onto his feet and forced into the waiting police car.

“You sicken me,” the deputy hissed as he slammed the door shut.

The female deputy held Stiles tight and gently guided him towards the second vehicle. Stiles’ wiped his crocodile tears on his sleeve and kept his head down. His whispered words were too low to make out, but he cast a small, meak little glance towards Peter and flinched.

Peter bore his teeth to him.

As the car started to move Peter saw a black Camaro disappearing through the trees leading up the path to the Hale house.

⋯⊶⋯⊷⋯

Derek only knew he was speeding from the way Lydia gripped the armrest. The lights and trees were a blur as they passed.

“It’ll happen soon, I know it will. If it hasn’t already.”

Derek’s foot edged further down on the pedal. He had to brake sharply to make the turn without slamming into the trees that lined the road.

Lydia gasped and dug her nails into the interior.

He slowed down only slightly to keep the car on the winding path. He trusted his reflexes and memory of the area to guide them through the trees. The sound of sirens echoed from up ahead but they were coming from much farther down the long stretch of rural road.

He brought the car to a jerking halt in front of the house and flung the door open. “Peter?” he shouted.

No one answered. There was no heartbeat. The front door had been left open.

Derek ran up to the house and went straight down to the open basement. The scent of blood permeated the room. The flashlight was off, leaving only moonlight to illuminate the floors. The lichen circle had been broken.

“Peter!” Derek shouted again. He could feel his heart jumping around in his chest. He howled and still, no one answered. He flared his nostrils and caught the scent of another wolf – and the rot of Stiles’ – trailing up through the window.

Lydia’s footsteps echoed on the staircase. She paused midway down the steps. “Peter?”

Derek pushed past her. He didn’t care if she followed or not. All he cared about was the scent. The winds were strong and blurred his senses but so long as it was fresh he could follow it.

While he ran he fumbled in his pocket for his own phone. He paused to flick through his contacts for only a second and pressed the device to his ear. He nearly bit through his lip waiting for someone to answer. 

“Chris? Peter’s gone,” he said as soon as he heard the click.

“Gone? What do you mean gone?” He could hear a little uptick in Chris’s heart as he repeated the word.

“The house is empty. Stiles is gone too. I’m trying to follow the scent but-”

“What happened? Tell me what happened.”

“I don’t know! There was a broken phone on the floor. There was – Chris there was blood down there.”

What had been a slight uptick doubled. It took half a second longer for his voice to return. “You can still scent Peter? Where?”

“Going into the woods. I might cut out soon I-”

“No! You have to stay on the line with me. Derek, stay on the line.”

“I can’t control the signal in the woods, Chris!”

“I know that. Dammit. Just – Just keep talking. I’m almost there. Where are you headed?”

“Back towards the road. That’s where the scent is. Stiles’ is there too.”

“Their scents are together?”

“No, not quite. They’re like – they’re following each other. Peter was following Stiles. They don’t line up quite right.”

“Okay, good. That means he wasn’t taken anywhere. I’m heading down the road now. Howl if you see me.”

“Okay,” Derek breathed. The wind burned at his cheeks and face. He kept sniffing, kept scenting, as much as he could. As soon as he broke through the tree line the scent abruptly stopped. It lingered in a pool around the immediate area but it went no further. Even Stiles’ own pungent aroma disappeared.

A heavy ache filled Derek’s heart. A ragged and broken noise escaped his throat. “Peter!” he shouted again, knowing full well that no one would answer.

The Tahoe’s headlights joined him a moment later. He didn’t have to look up to recognize the familiar beams of light. He clenched his fists at his sides and glared at the ground.

“Derek,” said Chris as he climbed out of the car. “Where’s Peter?”

“I don’t know!” he said. “His scent just stops. It stops right _here_.”

“Did he get into a car?”

“I don’t know. Probably.”

“What happened? You were supposed to be taking Lydia and Isaac home.”

“I did. Lydia refused to go. She said something bad would happen here and now Peter’s missing.”

“Lydia’s here? Where is she?”

“Back at the house.”

“The house? Why is she-“

“Because she couldn’t follow me. Babysitting teenagers isn’t really high on my priority list right now. I just want to know what happened to my uncle.”

“Hey, hey. It’s okay,” said Chris. His leather gloved hand appeared on Derek’s shoulder and thumbed over his skin. “It’s alright.”

“How is it alright?” Derek looked up. “We have no idea where he is, or where Stiles’ is, or even where Lydia is at the moment.”

Chris’s eyes softened. He squeezed Derek’s shoulder for a moment. “I’m worried about Peter too,” he said. “We have to find him and we will. Right now we need to get Lydia. You said she had a feeling something would happen? Did she say where?”

“N-no,” said Derek. “She just said something bad. She said blood and sirens.”

“Alright, well we found the blood in the basement. Sirens could mean anything. The hospital, or even the police station. Maybe a fire truck?”

“Stiles dad was a sheriff.”

“Right, so the police station is the most likely place.”

Derek’s eyes flashed at the sound of a rustling from behind. His fangs dropped from the roof of his mouth. His claws flicked from his nails.

Lydia stumbled through the brush towards them.

“Oh, thank god I caught up to you,” she said. Her hair had several leaves sticking out of it, that coupled with the bruises from the Nogitsune’s attack made her look a little less than sane, standing there on the side of the road.

“Lydia,” said Chris. “Are you alright?”

“I’m peachy,” she said. “My friend from high school is possessed by a spirit and has run off to do who knows what, and now Peter’s gone too.”

“We think he might be at the police station. We’ll check there first and then-“

“No,” said Lydia. “Not the police station. The hospital.”

“The hospital?” Chris raised a brow. “Are you sure?”

“You said sirens. Sirens are police cars,” Derek interjected.

“Or an ambulance,” she said back. “I’m positive. I can see it. The roof of the hospital. It – It smells like lichen and rot and a little bit of blood. I can see Stiles’ face there when I close my eyes. I know that’s where they went.”

“Well, why didn’t you say that before?” snapped Derek. He could feel the vein in his forehead pounding. 

“Are you _sure_? We can’t waste time on this,” Chris said, and for once he and Derek were in total agreement.

“Chris, I promise you something is there. I know it is. I-I- there was blood back at the house and I keep seeing something – something on the rooftop. Please, Chris.”

“Okay,” Chris said with a swallow. “Okay, we head to the hospital first. We’ll take my car, c’mon.”

They all piled into the vehicle with Chris at the wheel and Derek beside him. They were silent all the way there save for the sound of the wind buffeting against the exterior.

Derek didn’t remember how long the drive took or even what they passed to get there, all he remembered was Peter’s scent and how angry it had been when it disappeared. He didn’t bother telling Chris that, it wasn’t vital for him to know and it would only make him upset.

Chris stopped the car right outside the entrance to the hospital. “Go straight through, don’t speak to any nurses. If you look like you belong they’ll believe it. Head to the back to the staircases and force your way through if you have too, I’ll make something up later.”

“Okay,” said Derek as he jumped out. That had been his plan anyways.

He ran through the hospital, keeping his pace just slow enough that he wouldn’t slam into anyone. The stairway doors were thankfully unlocked. He threw them open and raced up the steps as quickly as his feet would carry him.

He had to smash through a padlock to get to the top of the roof. He threw open the door.

“Peter!” he called.

Still, no one answered and his heart sank.

He was joined soon after by Chris and Lydia.

“Where’s Peter?” Chris demanded. “Where is he?”

“He’s not here,” said Derek. “He was never here.”

Chris whipped his head around to look at Lydia.

Lydia took a step back and swallowed. “Chris – I – I swear I – I saw him up here.”

“You said you saw _Stiles_ up here.”

“He hasn’t been here either,” said Derek. “There’s nothing. No one has been up here, not in ages.”

“I – I am _so sorry_ ,” said Lydia. “I _swear_ I saw him. I – I really thought-“

Chris clenched his eyes shut. He took a deep breath through his nose. When he opened his eyes they were wet. Derek could smell the salt in his tears.

“Where the hell is Peter?” Chris demanded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, if you liked it please leave a comment. Thank you n.n


	8. Chapter 8

Peter was certain there were laws that made the way Deputy Parrish was yanking him about illegal. The skeleton crew of a sheriff’s station already looked like it had seen better days. The few officers present during the late-night hours cast him inhospitable looks. 

Deputy Tara kept her arms around Stiles’ the entire time. He clung to her shirt and let his shoulders quake with fear. His lips trembled as he eyed Peter with barely suppressed crocodile tears. 

“It’s okay, honey,” she said. “Just a statement, then it’s done. You know how this works, right?” 

Peter didn’t get to hear his answer as he was dragged down into the holding area and shoved forcefully into a cell in the farthest corner. He could still feel the sting of the cuffs pressing into his sore wrists. The bruises would heal in a matter of minutes but the wound was sharp enough to make him grit his teeth. “I get a phone call!” he shouted as Jordan slammed the metal door shut. 

“You’re lucky if you get a last meal,” the deputy spat back. A little black fly buzzed next to his ear, a second one crawled along his shoulder. He swiped his card in front of the electronic lock. “You two can rot together.” 

Peter followed Parrish’s gaze to the cell next to his own. 

A man sat on the bench with his elbows on his knees and his body hunched forward. His face was unshaven by several days and his greasy black hair was uncombed and unwashed. The sour scent of body odor surrounded him. He rubbed his face with a bony, trembling hand like a skeleton’s. 

“What are you in for?” Peter asked dryly. 

The man on the bench lifted his head. His face was gaunt and covered in ugly red sores. His pale tongue licked his dry, cracked lips. He looked at Peter as if he were a blemish on an otherwise perfect scene. 

“I rid this town of a corrupt man,” he said, tilting his chin up. 

Parrish’s brow twitched. “You murdered a good sheriff and orphaned an innocent kid. We caught your partner over here. Maybe if one of you pleads guilty you won’t get a life sentence. _Maybe_.” 

Peter’s blood went cold. His body stiffened. _Corey Richards, murderer of Sheriff Stilinski,_ he remembered Chris showing him the article, just underneath it was a picture of the sheriff and his son back when Stiles face had been filled with color and life. 

“He murdered my wife!” the man said. He rose from the bench and took a few lumbering steps towards the bars of the cell. His legs, though swamped in a pair of gray sweats moved with an awkward jerk like a puppet resisting its strings. 

“Your _wife_ was on drugs and threatening to shoot up a liquor store,” Parrish said. He stepped away from the bars and turned his back on them. 

The inmate grasped the bars of the cell and hissed through it. “She was a good woman. He had no right to take her from me. A life for a life!”

“Then you went after his son,” Peter said. “Why?” 

“You should know,” Parrish said as he pushed open the doors and disappeared inside of them. It slammed back into place, forced against the wall by its own weight as if the bars and electronic keypads weren’t deterrent enough. 

“He had to know what it was like to lose someone. He didn’t know the _pain_. She was a good woman.”

“He lost a wife too. She-“ 

“It’s not the same! God took his wife but a man took mine. There is a difference.” Richards punctuated his sentence by stabbing a finger in Peter’s direction. He glared through the bars for a moment more before he let go and walked back to his bench. 

Peter’s mouth filled with tar at the thought of taking someone’s child. No matter what was done to him, even if something was done to Chris, he couldn’t hurt an innocent. Even in his brief time as a feral it never crossed his mind to take a life that hadn’t deserved it. Maybe, if Chris hadn’t been there he would have passed that threshold but he was thankful he never had to find out. 

There was a small commotion outside the holding area. The heavy doors muffled most of the sound but he could hear voices raise briefly and then dead silence beyond it. The cell door pushed open once more, guided by a slim hand wrapped in a bandage. 

“That better be my phone call,” Peter said. 

A little cluster of flies flitted inside the room. Stiles stepped in. His bare feet tracked mud behind him. 

Peter snarled. 

Stiles hunched his shoulders and walked towards him whilst keeping one arm behind his back. He winced at every step and bit into his lip. He wouldn’t meet Peter’s eyes. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” Peter asked as Stiles stopped directly in front of his cell. The sharp tips of his fangs poked against his tongue. 

“What are you doing _alive?_ ” Richards spat. He glowered at Stiles like a rabid dog salivating for a piece of fresh meat. 

“I – I’m so sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry, Peter. I can’t – I can’t control it …” Stiles blinked and shed a single tear from his eye. “I can’t make him go away. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t, I swear.”

“Stiles?” Peter asked. “Real Stiles?” 

Stiles nodded vigorously. He wiped at his eyes with one hand. “I don’t know how long he’s gonna be gone for – I just – I’m so sorry. I’m trying so hard. I – I can’t-“ his breath caught in his throat. “I hear him. All the time now.” 

“I need you to open the door Stiles,” Peter said. “I need you to tell Jordan this was a misunderstanding. Bring me a phone.” 

“I _can’t_ ,” Stiles shuffled closer to the bars. He gripped onto them with his bandaged hand. “I can’t. He won’t let me. I- I don’t know what to do. How do I make him go away?” 

“Stiles,” Peter took a cautious step closer. “Bring me a phone so I can help you. I just want to help you.”

Stiles shook his head. “That’s what he said. He didn’t help me.” 

Richards moved closer and pressed himself against the bars of his own cell. 

Stiles’ eyes flickered to him and then back to Peter. 

“Just ignore him,” Peter said. “He-“

“What you doin’ with a gun, kid?” asked Richards. “You think your daddy would want you playin’ with those?” 

Stiles narrowed his eyes. “Oh, well you’re no fun,” he sneered. Stiles drew his arm from behind his back. In his hand he clutched a pistol. 

“What are you doing with that?” Peter asked. His claws flicked out and his jaw clenched tight as his fangs forced their way out. 

“Obviously, I’m going to use it to kill someone,” Stiles said with a roll of his eyes. He blinked and the last of his tears disappeared from his eyes. They ran down his cheeks and straight past his mouth as it grinned wide. “You know you really should check people for cell phones when you kidnap them,” he winked. “Also, falling for the ‘crying kid’ thing? I expected more of you.”

“A spirit of trickery resorting to gun violence? How blasé. I’m the one who should be disappointed,” he kept his tone level even as his heart threatened to rip out of his chest. 

“Trust me it’s not my first choice either,” the spirit said. “Guns are a bit too inelegant for me but I’m running short on time and you’re getting in my way.” He raised the weapon and stuck it between the bars of the cell, aiming directly at Peter’s chest. 

“You had me arrested just so you could shoot me?” 

“I’ve been around a long time, Peter. I know a gun isn’t going to kill you but I bet it’ll still hurt a lot.” The Nogitsune fired. 

The bullet caught Peter right in the center of his chest. He stumbled back and hit the wall just as another shot tore through his arm. He felt the blood running down his body as he slid down the wall. He gasped. For a moment, the pain made his head swim. He clenched his eyes shut and scratched at the area where the bullet imbedded itself. He gritted his teeth and dug around in the wound for that little bit of metal that stopped him from healing.

He kept one eye open and watched as the Nogitsune turned his sights on Richards. 

Richards cowered in the far corner of his cell between the wall and the bench. His knees were drawn up to his chest. 

“You stay back!” he shouted. “You don’t come near me! I was just doing what a man’s supposed to do! This is – it’s all your father’s fault!” 

“Actually,” the Nogitsune purred. “This is all your fault. You wanted revenge, right? You sat in the hospital with her before she died. You prayed for vengeance. I am here to answer those prayers.” He dragged the gun along the bars of Richards cell. 

Peter grunted as he felt the bullet and grasped onto it between two claws. He bit down on his wrist as he ripped the bullet out. He couldn’t help the pitiful cry of pain that escaped him. The open flesh started knitting itself back together. 

“What do you know about that?” Richards asked. “Who told you that?” 

The spirit smiled. “I know a lot of things. I heard them in the hospital. I used to live there and now I live here, in Stiles.”

“You crazy?” Richards asked. “Don’t shoot. I can, I can give you … I don’t got a lot but I can give you what I do have?” 

The spirit chuckled. “I only want vengeance,” he said. “It’s just not yours I care about.” He poked the gun through the bars of the cell. 

“Oh, god. Please no!” Richards covered his face with his hand. “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” 

The Nogitsune tsk’d. “Now why would you think those words would have an effect on me when they didn’t have an effect on you?”  
“You’re a bold thing, aren’t you?” Peter breathed. He tossed the bloody bullet onto the floor beside him. “Firing a gun inside a police station.” 

The Nogitsune chuckled. “It’s only us, Parrish, and Tara here. Well, there are a few others but they’re a little too preoccupied to be concerned with what’s happening here.” 

“Where are they? What did you do to them?” Peter asked. He strained his ears for heartbeats and only sensed a handful out in the halls. 

“Too far away to help you,” the Nogitsune said, “and nothing a good asylum can’t fix.” 

“You’re making a mistake,” Peter said. 

The Nogitsune raised a brow and turned to him. “Do you really care if this man lives or dies? He is a murderer, after all.” 

“N-no,” said Peter. “I would love to kill him myself,” each word was a struggle just to think let alone force his mouth to make, “but Stiles doesn’t want to kill people. He wouldn’t want that.” 

The Nogitsune laughed. “How do you know? You don’t know who Stiles is. You don’t know anything about him.” 

“I know his father was a good man. He wouldn’t have raised a killer.” 

“Touching, but this isn’t your choice. It’s Stiles’.” 

“I know he didn’t choose this.”

“No, but he will.” He turned back to Richards. “It’s him or Tara, Stiles. Pick one.” 

The hand holding the gun began to shake. 

“… I don’t _care_. If you don’t choose I’ll kill them both,” the Nogitsune said, his sharp teeth dragging against his lip as he spoke. “You have ten seconds.” 

“Don’t let him win, Stiles,” Peter said. “Don’t let him control you.”

“I’m a good man, I swear!” Richards pleaded. 

The hand on the gun tightened. The fingers trembled. 

The spirit rolled its eyes. “A little late for that, isn’t it? Clock is ticking, Stiles.” After several seconds of silence the spirit smiled slightly. “A good choice-” the arm holding the gun dropped down to his side before the Nogitsune could finish his sentence. It fired. 

“You motherfucker!” The Nogitsune spat. The gun narrowly missed shooting him in the foot. The spirit hissed and without another word shoved the pistol through the bars and shot Richards in the chest. 

Richards gasped. His hands fell away from his face. He slumped against the wall as the light drained from his eyes. 

“Now we have to kill them _all_ , Stiles,” the Nogitsune said. He turned back to Peter. 

“You know guns won’t kill me,” Peter said.

The spirit swiped a card in front of his cells keypad. The door beeped. A little light on the lock turned green. 

Peter sat up straighter and bore his teeth at the spirit as he slid the door open. 

“I don’t want to kill you, Peter,” he said almost fondly. “You or Isaac. You’re both so delightfully emotive, like little blights on everyone else’s happiness.”

“Then what do you want? What are you getting out of this?”

“To feed,” said the Nogitsune. “Pain, misery, chaos. I get it all. I lived in that damned hospital for decades hoping for someone so … connected to let me bed down inside of like a tick. I met Stiles once before, when his mother died, but he was too young back then. Now he’s perfect. I was always hoping something would happen to him.”

The spirit stepped inside the cell and walked forward. 

Peter snarled in warning and slid back along the wall. 

“I told you I wouldn’t kill you,” said the spirit. “Let me prove it.” He set the gun on the floor. “See? I won’t shoot you again. I like you, Peter.” 

“Forgive me for not returning the sentiment,” he said with a swallow. 

The Nogitsune knelt beside him. “The screams are going to be magnificent when I am through. The hospital will collapse under its own inefficiency and I will be free, forever. If Lydia ever stops howling it will be due to her lungs giving out or her voice breaking beyond repair.” An evil glint flashed in his eyes. He reached a cold, curled hand out to Peter’s throat. 

Peter thought of Chris and Derek. He thought of Stiles, dying inside himself while his imposter used his face as a mask. 

He grabbed the Nogitsune by the wrist and yanked him closer. Before he had time to react he shoved the spirit down onto his back and climbed on top. He pinned him down with his knees to the Nogitsune’s sides and reached into his pocket for the remaining lichen. 

The Nogitsune’s eyes went pure black. His hooked teeth gnashed and reared up for him. 

Peter grasped him by the chin and tilted his throat back. He fumbled to pull the lichen from the bag, its sticky surface clung to his fingers as his heart raced. He pulled out a small bundle and jammed three fingers into the Nogitsune’s mouth with his free hand. 

The demon hissed and roared. It thrashed violently underneath him. 

Peter forced the handful of lichen into the Nogitsune’s mouth. It spat and jerked its head but Peter kept forcing it down with his fingers. He could feel the cold slimy tongue struggling to push it out of its mouth. 

Peter gritted his teeth as the Nogitsune’s hooked teeth clamped down around his fingers and dug into his skin hard enough to grind against the bone. He kept shoving it down even as it became wet and sticky with blood and saliva. The wetness made it easier to slip around the Nogitsune’s tongue but he thrashed and jerked enough to keep most of the clump from his throat. 

“Stiles. _Help_ ,” Peter hissed, unaware if the boy could even hear him. 

The Nogitsune’s eyes flickered for a moment. The pure black faded for half a second into the wide, brown eyes of the natural Stiles. While they presented themselves the body inhaled and swallowed. The lichen disappeared down into the esophagus.

Peter pulled his hand from the Nogitsune’s mouth, flicking the blood off his nearly eviscerated fingers. 

The brown eyes turned back to black. 

“No!” It screeched and bucked. 

Peter fell off and the spirit scrambled back up onto its feet. 

The spirit grabbed the gun and shot once, twice, and then a third time. The first bullet hit Peter’s chest, the second and third went straight through his stomach. 

Peter slumped against the wall as the blood drained from his face.

⋯⊶⋯⊷⋯

Stiles fought not to throw up. The bitter lichen and copper blood tainted his tongue. He could still feel Peter’s fingers jamming down into his throat and his clawed fingers poking into his chin. His stomach churned with unease as the lichen hit his stomach. He saw Peter’s head body go limp, his arms falling palm-up beside his rapidly bleeding body.

He staggered on poorly responding legs and leant against the wall of the holding cell to keep from toppling over. His vision swam, his head throbbed, his finger twitched on the trigger. He clamped his hand around the wrist holding the weapon and forced it down to his side. His hands were physically clean but he could feel the bloodshed he caused staining them forever. 

The spirit clawed at his consciousness, frantically trying to wrench control away from him. He could feel his control slipping out from underneath him. His vision flickered with each and every push from the spirit’s. He tried to release the gun but his shaking fingers stuck to it like it was melded to his skin. 

Peter groaned as his eyes flickered shut and clenched tight. He raised a clawed hand to dig at his chest where the bullets tore through his shirt. His fingers were lacerated all over with bite marks.

“Oh god,” Stiles breathed. “I’m sorry I am so, so, so sorry.” His tongue weighed heavily in his mouth like a cement block. It was hard to breath let alone speak. 

Peter squinted an eye open. His iris’s flashed bloody red. Whether it was his own sleep-deprived delirium or a trick of the spirit’s he didn’t know. All he knew was that he needed to get far, far away from him before the spirit could fire again. 

_'You’re making a mistake,'_ the spirit snarled in his brain. _'They want to kill you. They will kill you.'_

Stiles took a deep breath and staggered forward. He clenched his eyes shut as a splitting pain burst behind his eyelids. “St-stop.” 

For a moment, the spirit was quiet. Another wave of pain crashed through Stiles’ skull. 

He walked on, barely mustering the strength to force the door open. Every step was like walking through molasses. The station was quieter than he had ever seen it. The fans whirred overhead. A phone rang from the front office, but no one answered it. He looked down the hall just in time to see several police cars flip on their lights and race out onto the street only to disappear around the corner. 

Stiles couldn’t remember how he’d gotten there. Vague memories faded in and out, each one bringing with it a splitting pain that made him wince. He remembered holding Jackson’s windpipe and crushing it in his hands. He remembered the revulsion he felt at seeing fear in Jackson’s eyes. He remembered a pain in the back of his skull as something slammed into the back of his head. He remembered blue eyes of a man staring down at him as he plucked sharp pieces of rock from his feet. Everything between the moments was a blur.

He staggered down the hallway to his dad’s office. His heart twisted in line with his stomach. If there was a small blessing to any of it, it was that John wouldn’t have to see him in such a state. He had to get away. Far away, before the spirit could use him to hurt people. It was hard when the walls and floors wouldn’t stay still. 

His foot bumped into something laying along the floor and he fell forward, unable to keep his balance. He forced one arm out in front of him, catching his fall. 

Deputy Tara lay beside him on the ground, her eyes closed and a purpling bruise around her throat. Her skin had taken on a greyish hue. 

_No,_ Stiles thought with a swallow. He reached a shaking hand out and put his fingertips over her mouth. He felt a warm breath against them. 

He breathed his own sigh of relief, though it didn’t last long as his throat burned. He coughed, spitting strands of lichen onto the ground. They were stained red with the blood that stuck to his teeth from Peter’s hands. Bile rose in his throat. He forced it back down and licked his dry tongue over his even dryer lips. He hefted himself back up onto his feet. His fingers were still wrapped tight around the gun. Even at risk of shooting himself the spirit refused to let it go. 

He moved away from Tara as quickly as his body would allow. He kept his arm pointed away from her. Jordan was nowhere to be seen. Whether that was a blessing or a curse Stiles didn’t know. 

He stumbled into the office. The door was already ajar, most of the things packed in boxes, but the little row of keys was still in its usual place along the far wall. Most of them were either missing or useless, but there were a few car keys still hanging there. He grabbed the first one he saw. 

_'This accomplishes nothing,'_ the spirit hissed. It’s bristling fury stabbed into Stiles’ skull like a railroad spike. 

He winced and clenched his eyes shut for a few seconds before he continued his stagger through the station. He had to get out, get out before his finger on the trigger could fire again. 

“I don’t want to hurt people,” he breathed. 

_'He was a murderer. He would have killed you. _I_ stopped him from killing you.'_

“You wanted me to kill Tara.” He could feel his stomach acids resisting the blood and lichen. His body screamed to get it out, to keel over and get rid of it but he couldn’t. The thought of the spirit regaining control terrified him. 

_'I wanted you to fight. I wanted you to give in to that spark inside you. Tip the scales in our favor. We are one now. We will always be. Who else do you have?'_

“I won’t be anything like you.” 

_'You are a murderer.'_

A cold shiver ran up Stiles’ spine. He could feel the cold wind on his face as he pushed open the door to the police station. The cool air repressed some of the discomfort in his belly. It was still dark outside but the moon that had been high above his head hung low on the horizon.

He knew exactly where he would find the cruiser the keys belonged to. It was an older car with a worn interior that always smelled like drunks and had coffee stains all along the upholstery. They gave it to new members of the police force first until they could be trusted enough with an upgrade. It was the car John taught him to drive in.

He slid into the seat and jammed the keys in the ignition. It started easier than his jeep ever had. He cranked the heat up as high as it would go. It took all of his strength but he released his clenched fingers and dropped the gun into the passenger seat. They’d been holding on so tight his joints throbbed with pain. 

_'That is _ours_ , Stiles.'_

“Where did you get it?” he asked. He jerked the car back, riding up on the curb, and then peeled it out of the parking space. He blinked away the blurring of his vision. 

_'I took it from someone who wasn’t using it anymore.'_

“Where did you get it?” he gripped the wheel tight and breathed through his mouth to keep from throwing up all over himself. 

_'He would have wanted you to have it.'_

“You’re wrong. How did you get it? You can’t just-”

 _'The window in the bathroom hardly ever gets locked and you’re just slim enough to slide through. Your memories are so helpful. I meant it when I said we were one.'_ The spirit smugly reared itself and pressed against his consciousness hard enough that Stiles’ vision began to flicker. He had to swerve to avoid a lamp post. _'This is the best end for your life. We will be together, a part of one another.'_

“Am I going to die?”

_'Your body will continue to exist.'_

“Oh god.” 

_'Not yet, but I will be.'_

Stiles bit into his lip hard enough to break the skin but the taste of blood was lost underneath Peter’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked this chapter please leave a comment, thank you n.n


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additionally warnings at the end of the chapter.

The drive was the longest of Stiles’s life. His fingers shook, his belly revolted, his head pounded. He wanted the hospital but so did the spirit. That’s where everything had started, anyways.

His vision flickered in and out as the spirit pushed against his control. His eyes burned as he stared out at the empty road before him, the streetlights though few and far between were blinding when. It was a struggle to keep from veering too far in the opposite lane. 

“If I crash the car we both die,” he said with a swallow. 

_'No, just you. A corpse is just as easy to possess as a living thing.'_ Even as he said it the spirit’s claws digging into his brain retracted slightly.

A well-maintained sign on the right side of the road welcomed him to the neighborhood. He slowed as the street narrowed and filled with cars. His stomach twisted violently. He closed his eyes for a second and focused on his breathing. It was getting worse. When he opened them he saw Danny’s green mountaineer sitting in the Whittemore’s driveway. His heart sped up. It was too late to go anywhere else. He could already feel the snake-like movements of the spirit slithering over his brain. 

His right hand jerked and grabbed the gun.

“Fuck!” he hissed. He shook his arm but his fingers clamped down tight. “Fuck. Shit. Fuck.”

_'Don’t be vulgar.'_

Stiles took a deep breath. He lifted his wrist to his mouth and bit down, cringing in pain as his teeth dug deep in his skin with jagged points closer to sharks than his own. His blood pooled up from the wound, bringing with it a noxious scent that burned at his nose. 

_'Chew your own wrist off if you have too but I won’t let go.'_ His hand on the gun tightened. 

“I’m not going to let you hurt Danny. Or Jackson,” he said, wiping the blood and spit from his lips. The blood staining his sleeve was almost pure black.

_'I’m not after a few petty deaths. The dead don’t feel anything.'_

“Some consolation,” he said. He yanked the car door open and staggered out across the street. He could see figures inside the house standing in the living room. The smaller, narrower form gesticulated wildly towards the bedrooms. 

Stiles clasped onto his wrist and kept it down by his side as he sidled along the fence into the backyard. His heart beat quickened as he passed by the automatic lights, praying they wouldn’t flick on. The yard was thinly illuminated by the blue lights of the pool. A few scattered towels draped discordantly over beach chairs, the result of Jackson’s inconsiderate house guests. The scent of chlorine agitated his already disturbed stomach and watered his eyes. 

_'Let it out, Stiles, or it will kill you,'_ the spirit promised. _'The lichen isn’t just a poison for me.' ___

__“As long as you die too,” Stiles said._ _

__His grip on the gun tightened. He needed to get rid of it. For just a brief second he thought of throwing himself into the pool. The water was deep and if walking was difficult swimming would be impossible, but it was too big of a risk. The chlorine might make him throw up and then the lichen that kept the spirit at bay would be gone. Or worse, Jackson or Danny might see him drowning and try to play hero._ _

___'Stiles,'_ the spirit said. _'This is not how things should be. You don’t have to pass so painfully. We can stay together. I protected you once. I can do that again.'__ _

__“You didn’t protect me you used me.” He moved away from the pool, away from the bitter scent. His stomach didn’t care. He’d already inhaled enough of it. He collapsed onto his knees beside Linda’s geraniums as his wobbling legs finally gave out. His vision blurred as his head swayed from side to side._ _

__He dug into the ground with his hand. The night chill had turned it cold and hard. He clawed and scooped as much as he could but the further he got the harder it became._ _

_'What are you doing? Stop this.'_

__Another violent wave coursed through Stiles’ brain and dizzied his vision._ _

__He shook his head and kept digging even as the bile rose in his throat. He dug until he was up to his elbow in dirt. It wasn’t very wide but the gun wasn’t either. He tried peeling his fingers from the weapon but his hand hurt so much. They wouldn’t budge, not even a little. He tried to claw at them with the hand he still possessed, digging into his already broken and bleeding skin. The spirit hissed in his brain and slammed against him._ _

__Stiles’ vision swam. As the nausea that threatened his throat climbed to his mouth he remembered the way the spirit screamed as Peter pressed the lichen to his tongue. He stuck his arm into the hole, gun and all and just let it out. His body wretched. It came out in a flood of viscous, neon-green liquid._ _

__The spirit screamed in his brain and released. His hand, particularly his open wound, burned like it had been drenched in boiling hot water. His fingers twisted and contorted like a dying spider. Little bits of Peter’s blood glistened against his skin. He grunted through the pain and shoveled as much of the dirt as he could into the hole with one hand while the other frantically wiped against the ground._ _

__“Stiles?”_ _

__The automatic lights flicked on, flooding the yard with a brilliant white._ _

__“Stiles? What are you doing out here?”_ _

__“Danny?” Stiles looked back. He hadn’t even heard the screen door open. Danny stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the porch lights. His face was impossible to make out but the build was his. Behind him Jackson hovered, half hiding behind his friend._ _

__“Don’t go near him!” Jackson snapped and for once Stiles was grateful for the hostility. “He’s fucking psycho! That asshole tried to murder me! He tried to murder Lydia!”_ _

__“Yeah, Stiles ‘can’t-withstand-a-tackle’ Stilinski attacked you and Lydia, the girl he’s been trailing for years. I think you’ve been dipping into Linda’s meds again.” Danny chuckled but the sound was halfhearted._ _

__“No, Danny! Lydia even called you. I swear he’s gone fucking insane. Look at him he’s tearing up the garden!”_ _

__“She said you got into an argument. I think she would have mentioned him trying to murder you.”_ _

__“I swear to fucking god, Danny!”_ _

__Stiles tried to stand but his legs were like a newborn colts. He fell back onto his knees the second he pushed up. “G’ way,” he slurred. “Just go away, Danny.”_ _

__Without the lichen the spirit swarmed Stiles’ mind. He contracted around him like a snake and gripped him so tight Stiles wanted to cry._ _

___Let your friends help you, Stiles. That’s all you wanted, wasn’t it? Some friends to help you?_ _ _

__Danny stepped off the porch. As he grew closer the spirit gripped harder._ _

__“What’s wrong?” Danny asked. As he came into view Stiles saw he was frowning. He wore only a pair of light blue pajama pants. “You’re shaking like a leaf. Did you take something?”_ _

__“Danny!” Jackson snapped. “Come back here! Don’t go near him he’ll – he’ll do something! He’s dangerous!”_ _

__“Yes,” Stiles breathed. “Dangerous.”_ _

__“What’s dangerous?” He jerked back as he crouched beside Stiles and put a hand over his nose and mouth. “Jesus, fuck it reeks over here.”_ _

__“ _Danny_!” Jackson took a step closer. _ _

__“No people. Danny, just go. Trust me. Please, just-“ he cut himself off as another wave of nausea passed over him. He jerked to the side and wretched onto the flowers, clenching his eyes shut tight._ _

__“Jesus fucking Christ, is that _blood_? That’s it, we’re taking you to a hospital.” _ _

__Stiles squinted his eyes open. He tried to speak but his tongue wouldn’t obey. _No,_ Stiles thought as his speech was torn from him. _ _

___'Yes,'_ purred the spirit._ _

__“Hospital,” his voice cried out, his tongue moving without his effort. “Please, Danny.”_ _

__“C’mon buddy,” Danny said. He wrapped his arms underneath Stiles’ own and pulled him up onto his shaking legs. Stiles fell against his shoulder and whimpered. Slowly he was lead back towards Danny’s car._ _

__“Danny, this is the stupidest fucking thing you’ve ever done. Let go of him.” Jackson was right beside them as Danny put Stiles’ arm around his shoulders and wrapped his own around his waist._ _

__“We’re not just going to leave him out here to puke himself to death.”_ _

__Stiles drug his feet into the ground. He looked at Jackson, pleading with his eyes as best he could, but Jackson wouldn’t even look at him._ _

____

⋯⊶⋯⊷⋯

Chris whipped through the streets of Beacon Hills. A half dozen police vehicles raced past him with their sirens blaring and lights flashing but not a single one paid any head to the Tahoe speeding through the city. Even if they had there was little doubt in Chris’s mind that he wouldn’t plow right through them if it meant getting to Peter even a second sooner. At the very least they’d be in for one hell of a chase.

 _”Ten seventy-nine at Beacon Hills High School. Officers en route.”_ The dispatcher's voice on the other end of the line was muddled by static. It was the third bomb threat that night, the other two were at a major hotel and a business center respectively, all locations on the opposite side of town from the police station. 

Lydia wrung her hands on the passenger seat. “Why is he doing this? Why does he want to blow up the school?”

“He doesn’t,” said Chris. “Maybe he does but it’s not his primary motivation. He’s leading them away from the station, away from where he, and I hope to god Peter, are.” The sheriff’s station was the only place that made sense now. The rational part of his brain urged him to come up with contingency plans in the event they showed up and Peter wasn’t there, but the rational part of his mind didn’t exist when it came to Peter. 

They arrived at the station just as the last few cars sped out of the parking lot, as with the others their lights were on and their sirens blared past them. Chris jerked the car to a stop right outside the front doors. In his haste the front wheel went up on the curb. He hadn’t even taken the keys out before Derek jumped out, Lydia following right behind. Chris yanked his own door open and chased after them. 

Derek’s nostrils flared as they entered the lobby. 

The state of the station was a whirlwind. Papers lay haphazardly abandoned on the floor, mugs were overturned, a puddle of coffee dried in the center of a hallway. Not a single person sat at any of the desks.

Derek let out a low snarl as his claws flicked from his hands. “I smell blood,” he said. “It smells like Peter.” 

“Where?” Chris demanded. “Where’s Peter?” 

“Not far. Down the second-“ 

“What are you people doing here?” A blonde deputy rounded the corner and narrowed his eyes at them. From his left ear dripped a black goo that leaked like ink down his skin and pooled on his shoulder. A few flies clung to his hair. Underneath it all Chris recognized the deputy as one of the Sheriff’s favored few. They’d met on occasion but never for long. His meetings with the sheriff had always been a closed-door affair. “This area is off limits to civilians.” 

“Deputy Parrish,” Chris said. “I’m a friend of Sheriff Stilinski’s. Have you-“

“You aren’t a member of this police force. You need to leave. Now.” 

“This will only take a second,” said Lydia. “We just need to find Peter Hale. Is he-“ 

“I said leave,” the deputy snarled like a Rottweiler. His voice turned guttural as two sharp fangs jutted from his mouth. His eyes lit up with a flaming orange.

Lydia gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. 

Derek stepped between Parrish and Lydia. He let out a dark growl of his own, deep and throaty. “Where is my uncle?” he asked as he locked eyes with the deputy. 

Chris grabbed his gun from his side and leveled it at the deputy’s chest. “Stay back,” he cautioned Lydia. 

“I told you to leave,” the deputy spat. 

“Not without my husband,” said Chris. 

Parrish roared. His body ignited with orange and yellow flames, immediately singing his clothes off his body and filling the air with the repugnant scent of burning fabric. Underneath the flames, his skin took on the appearance of char, like the trees at the old Hale home. 

Derek flinched. 

Chris fired at the deputy’s chest. It knocked him back for only a second. As he recovered Derek leapt onto the desk and launched himself towards the flames. His arm slashed at the deputy’s body, straight through the flames to his bared torso.

The Deputy screamed as his skin was cut through. The blood lasted for only a second before his own flames cauterized the wound. 

Chris grabbed Lydia by the arm and shoved them both down behind a desk just in time to see Derek thrown into a desk beside them. The desk snapped in two and sent pieces of wood flying in all directions. 

The arm Derek used to slash was covered in a bright pink blister. His clothes were singed with black. It hurt to see him that way, even if only for a second. 

“Are you okay?” Chris asked. 

“Find Peter,” Derek shouted as he rose back up and disappeared over the debris. “Two halls down. Left side!”

Chris grabbed Lydia’s arm and pulled her towards the hallway. “Keep your head down. Don’t look at them.” 

She followed wordlessly behind, whimpering slightly when a loud ‘bang’ came from the other side. The sound of the roars was deafening. 

Chris peered up over the desk as they came to the final row. Parrish was on the ground but quickly getting up. Derek’s shirt was torn clean through, what fabric remained blackened and smoldered. Long slashes ran from the top of his chin down to his hip.

“Let’s go. Now. Hurry.” They made a break for the hallway and ran towards the second doorway. He heard Parrish roar and another slam that shook the foundation of the building. The door was heavy but he yanked it open. 

“Peter!” he shouted as he stumbled inside. A bloody body lay crumpled over in the first cell. His heart nearly stopped. 

“Chris,” came a weak response further down the row. 

“Oh thank god,” said Chris. He ran towards the voice. His stomach lurched at what he found. 

Peter’s clothes were soaked in blood. Two bullets lay on the floor beside him. His head lolled against the bench of his cell. With every rise of his chest his face contorted with pain. 

Chris kneeled beside him and took his head in his hands. “Peter, if you ever fucking leave me like that again-“ 

“Wasn’t really a choice, my dear Christopher.” Peter squinted his eyes open. The corner of his mouth twitched into a brief smile before he grunted again and clenched them shut. “Do you have tweezers? I need you to-“ 

A loud roar drowned his words. The door to the holding cell swung open and slammed into the far wall. Derek was thrown into the bars of the cell directly in front of it. There was a sickening ‘crack’ as Derek’s shoulder popped out of place. He cried out. 

Peter’s eyes snapped open. He lifted himself up and snarled. The shade of his eyes matched the color of the dried blood on his shirt.

Chris gripped his shoulder tight. 

Parrish came through the doorway a second later. Even behind the bars, Chris could feel the heat of his body rolling over them. His eyes were black and trance-like as he moved towards Derek. 

Chris grabbed his gun and raised it at Parrish but it was impossible to get a clean shot of him through the cell doors. 

Derek heaved himself up. His torso was burnt and blistered. He struggled to keep his breath even. 

“Oh god,” said Lydia. She stood against the back wall. 

Parrish turned to her. His dark eyes narrowed. 

Derek lunged, slamming into his back and knocking him off balance. His flames flickered as Derek raised a clawed hand and slashed down at his face. 

Parrish blocked the strike with his arms and tried to buck him off but Derek held on tight. His flames sprung back to life and licked at Derek’s sides. He screamed and released as his skin burned and blistered. 

Lydia ran towards him, the orange hair whipping behind her as bright as Parrish’s flames. 

“Lydia!” Chris shouted. 

Parrish stood. He opened his mouth and snarled. The black ooze dripping from his ears clung to his teeth. 

Lydia kept running. She bypassed Derek who made a feeble attempt to stop her but she easily jumped over his outstretched arm and grabbed the fire extinguisher from the wall. She pulled the pin and aimed the nozzle at Parrish. 

A white cloud of foam erupted from the handle and doused his body. He yelled and stumbled back as the foam snuffed out his flames. He fell to the ground with his arms raised over his face. 

Lydia emptied the rest of the extinguisher over him until he was completely covered and the extinguisher only hissed.

Derek stood on shaky legs and limped towards Parrish. He hesitated before pushing some of the foam away with his hand. His skin had gone completely back to normal. 

“He’s unconscious,” Derek said with a breath of relief. 

Chris breathed as well and ran a hand through his hair. He lowered his gun. 

Lydia dropped the extinguisher. “Well, thank god that’s over,” she said. 

“Thank you for doing that,” said Chris. “Never do that again.”

“I don’t plan too,” she said, dropping down onto her knees.

Derek grunted and limped towards the cell Peter and Chris sat in. His whole body was licked red. Even his face had a few blisters along his jawline. He was trembling with pain as his body struggled to heal the damage coming from every direction. Only his pants were still intact and even they were blackened in most places. At some point he’d shed his shirt so the blood on his chest was completely visible. 

Peter hissed. He sat up and reached a hand out for him. 

“Are you okay?” asked Derek. He crouched low, wincing as agitated his various burns. 

“Fine,” Peter grunted. He reached out with trembling fingers and grasped Derek’s biceps.

“Peter, don’t,” said Derek, jerking away from him. 

Peter managed to roll his eyes, even as his body grew limp. “I’m stronger than I look,” he said. “It just takes some time.” As the black veins ran up Peter’s arm the burns coursing over Derek’s body rescinded and turned to tan, healthy skin once again. The open wound on his chest knitted back together in a matter of seconds. 

“Thank you,” said Derek. “But I could have-“ 

“I need you,” said Peter. 

Derek’s eyes widened. 

“You have to go after Stiles.” 

“Oh,” said Derek. “I can’t – I can’t just leave you here. Why aren’t you healing?” His brows knitted together over his eyes as they traveled down Peter’s torso. 

“Bullets,” Peter spat. “Can’t reach them myself. Someone has to dig them out for me.” 

“I can do that,” said Derek. “I can get whatever you need-“ 

“No,” said Peter. His eyes flashed red. “I love you, nephew, but you need to find Stiles. Chris can stay here and get them out.”

“I promise nothing will happen to Peter,” said Chris. “But I can’t fight Stiles and I can’t track him the way you can.” 

Derek looked between them. “Fine,” he said. “Don’t let anything happen to my uncle.” 

“I’ve been through far worse than this,” said Peter. His pale lips formed a smirk. “I’ll be fine. You know me, I always come back.”

Derek nodded and slowly stood. “I don’t – where do I find him?” 

“The hospital,” said Peter and Lydia at the same time. 

Peter looked at her. “Stiles’ mentioned something about a hospital.” 

“I told you,” said Lydia. “I sensed him there. I sensed him at the hospital. He must be there now.” 

“Alright,” said Derek. “I’ll find him. I’ll stop him.”

“I know you will,” said Peter. “Now could someone please get these damn bullets out of me before I bleed out?”

“Lydia, go get my kit from the backseat of the car. It’s a black box hidden under the seats. Hurry.”

As Lydia rushed out the door Derek gave them a single, lingering look, then turned and followed her. 

“I hope you have some adrenaline in that box,” Peter drawled, “because I may have overestimated myself.” 

“Dammit Peter,” Chris took Peter’s face in his hands. It was far colder than he liked. He pressed their lips together as harshly and as lovingly as he could muster. “You are so damn lucky I love you,” he scolded when he pulled away. 

“I really am,” purred Peter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's lots of gun violence and nausea going on in this chapter. 
> 
> As alaways if you like this story please leave a comment, thank you n.n


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Serious trigger warnings in the end notes, so please read those if you're concerned.

A feeling of hopelessness welled in the pit of Stiles’s stomach. His vision blurred, his ears rang, and above all else he felt the spiked pain of the spirit trying to claw its way back into his mind. He knew he had to keep it at bay at least while Danny and Jackson were in the car, after that he didn’t know. What little lichen remained in his body was wearing thin. 

Jackson watched him from the passenger side seat. He hadn’t taken his eyes off him a second. 

Stiles groaned. The pain intensified like a jackhammer in his brain. He felt a few tears forming in his eyes. He gritted his teeth tight. 

“We’ll be there soon, buddy,” Danny said. The car sped up.

Stiles let out a pathetic whimper that made him shrivel up. He was certain he would die before Danny ever reached the hospital. 

_'YOU. WILL. DIE.'_ The spirit’s nails raked behind his eyes. His voice was right in Stiles’s ear, drowned by pain but brought back by the hate seething through it. 

“God, make it stop,” Stiles whimpered. 

_'LET. ME. IN.'_

He cried as another sharp spike went through him. He shuddered and bit down so hard on his lip it cracked through the skin and bled. The pain seared down the center of his brain. Every muscle, every cell, was screaming. 

Just as he thought he would rip in half he did. His eyes were forced open as his entire body convulsed. Suddenly he was made up of four arms, four legs, and two heads. He gasped and felt air sucked down two esophagi. He saw images from two different worlds through two pairs of eyes. The images slide together and transposed over one another creating a strange juxtaposition that dizzied his senses. 

In the first image, he saw his bedroom but not the way he remembered it. Translucent nails littered the surface of an equally translucent desk. His hands worked independently from the ones that clutched the seat of Danny’s mountaineer. He’d seen enough television to recognize the box as a shrapnel bomb.

He jerked his head harshly to the side. His own face was next to him only with blacked-out, puffy eyes, and pale skin like a corpse. His duplicate sneered and curled it’s cracked lips up over its razor teeth and snarled with a pointed tongue. It sounded like a drowning cat still trying to yowl. 

He turned away from his ghastly other self and tried focusing on the image in front of him. Danny’s hair and Jackson’s head, the car seats, and glow of the radio. Anything opaque he could discern from underneath the layers of mottled colors and half-formed shapes. He reached his hand out and touched the desk. His fingers slid right through it. 

Breathing got harder but only in one set of lungs. The other stayed calm and controlled as it kept working on the bomb. 

“It’s just a dream,” he whispered. “Just a dream. Just a dream.” 

_'Count your fingers,'_ the spirit rasped in its drowning-cat voice. 

Stiles closed his eyes and shut them tight. 

_'Count them. This is no dream.'_

When he opened his eyes the image playing out in front of him changed. He was in the school stairway. His backpack was slung over his shoulder and he wore his maroon lacrosse jersey. The backseat of the car and Danny and Jackson were no longer visible. His hand dipped into his backpack and pulled out the bomb. He taped the bomb to the staircase with a five-fingered hand. 

“What have you done?” Stiles demanded. His voice barely raised above a whisper. “What have you done?” 

_'Something you couldn’t.'_

He felt hands – real hands – on his body, pulling him from the car. His back hit something rough. He could see the stars in the sky above and Danny and Jackson staring down at him. 

A flood of memories rushed into his brain. He remembered all the nights he stayed up to make his bombs, he remembered his midnight walks to plant them, and he remembered taking his father’s gun from a glassy-eyed Jordan in the sheriff’s station. 

“Stiles!” a sharp sting snapped him from his thoughts. Danny crouched over him with his hand raised for a second smack. The secondary image faded from view and he was forced back into reality. 

They were outside now. He could see the glass double doors of the hospital emergency room entrance. His back was on the pavement. His ears felt wet. There was no double image.

“Oh shit. Is he dying? Is he seriously fucking dying?” Jackson demanded to know. He paced around behind Danny with his hands clutching his hair. 

“No, he’s just tripping,” said Danny. “His pupils are blown to hell. What the fuck were you taking, Stiles?” 

“They’re not blown! They’re black Danny! His eyes are fucking black. Fuck!” 

Stiles counted the fingers on Danny’s raised hand. 

“Five,” he croaked. “You have five fingers,” as he said it more sprung out from Danny’s palms like snakes trying to escape his flesh. “No, no no no.” He blinked rapidly and the extra fingers disappeared. 

Danny gently pressed his thumbs to Stiles’s lids and raised them up so he could peer into his eyes. He grimaced. 

“Jackson, go get a doctor, nurse, gurney, something! Anything!” 

“I’m not leaving you alone with that thing!” 

“Fine! I’ll go. You stay here!” He let go of Stiles’s face and ran towards the hospital entrance. 

“No – Danny. Wait! Come – come back! Danny!” Jackson’s cries didn’t reach him. He looked back at Stiles. 

Stiles rolled over onto his side. In the reflection of the car he saw his own face staring back at him with a scowl. A single line of blood dripped from his ear down to his chin. He rubbed his palm against it and only succeeded in creating a dark red smear across his cheek. 

“Oh my god you are dying,” Jackson said. “You’re dying. Fuck, fuck fuck. You’re dying. What the fucking hell.”

The image of Jackson split in two and came back together with a sudden lurch. Stiles clutched his head to keep the world from spinning. Two nurses in blue scrubs came rushing out of the building led by Danny. Three people split into six as they ran towards him. The woman on the left had too many fingers, the man on the right had too many eyes, and Danny flicked in and out of existence. 

“Stoooop,” Stiles pleaded. 

_'It’s the lichen,'_ the spirit said in a somber rasp. _'It is killing us both.'_

He was lifted up on a stretcher. The male nurse shined a light into his eyes while the female checked his pulse. As he was wheeled inside the building he looked up at the sky and found the stars were gone. He was taken into a room with bright lights and white tiling on the ceiling with little blue and green specks. The nurse took his temperature and then left with the promise to return in a few minutes. 

Danny pressed a five-fingered hand to Stiles’s forehead. “It’s going to be okay,” he promised. A fly crawled along his cheek. 

Stiles tried to warn him but his tongue was no longer in his control. It lay in his mouth as heavy as a brick and refused to budge. 

The fly made its way to Danny’s ear and crawled inside. A strange expression crossed Danny’s face. His eyes darkened and his hand on Stiles’ forehead stiffened. “We should go,” he said with a blank stare as his hand dropped 

“Yes. Thank god. You finally came to your fucking senses,” snapped Jackson. He wasted no time in pulling his friend from the room. 

Stiles struggled to sit up. His left hand gripped the bed railing without his consent. 

“Let go,” he grunted. 

_'No,'_ said the spirt. 

“Fine,” Stiles snapped. He grabbed a pen from the desk beside the bed, gritted his teeth, and drove it into the back of his hand. Tears sprung into his eyes as the pain spread up his arm. He didn’t bother even trying to remove it as he slid off the bed. 

_'You are only injuring yourself!'_ the spirit spat. _'You will die. I will remain. Stop this or I will kill Danny first.'_

“You know, you’re not very good at this whole bargaining thing,” Stiles breathed. He peeked out through the curtain dividing his room from the rest of the hallway. 

Jackson was being pulled down the hall by Danny. 

Danny looked back at him. His dark eyes narrowed. 

“Fuck.” 

_'You can’t outrun him,'_ said the spirit, condescension dripping from his tone. 

“I can try.” He ran towards the door at the end of the hallway, above which glowed a bright red ‘exit’ sign. He heard the pounding footsteps of Danny behind him. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Jackson shouted. 

Stiles wrenched open the exit door with his uninjured hand and slipped inside. He slammed it shut and locked it just as Danny reached him. 

Danny pounded on the glass and yanked at the handle. The black was spreading from his pupils outwards. 

Stiles backed away and ran up the steps holding the pen tight in one hand in case he needed to use it again. 

_'This is pointless.'_

“Shut up.”

_'You have maybe five or ten minutes before the lichen in your body ceases to be. Then all this struggling will have been for nothing.'_

Stiles winced as another burst of pain went through his skull. His vision darkened for several seconds. 

“Are you going to make me fall and snap my neck?” he snapped. “My body will be real useful to you then.” He grabbed onto the railing and heaved himself forwards. He didn’t think about where he was going, he just climbed the stairs as quickly as he could. 

_’You will face death either way. Peter and Chris will find you and kill you. You only have me now. I didn’t lie when I said they were hunters. Accept it and this can be quick.’_

“I’m not listening to you anymore.” 

Stiles lungs burned as he continued up the steps. They never seemed to end. He just kept climbing and climbing. His lungs screamed in protest. Getting air down into them became harder but when he thought he finally might pass out he arrived at the top with only a door in front of him. Just as he forced it open he heard another door, somewhere far below him slam open. 

“Fuck,” he breathed. The rooftop was completely empty, just a blank barren field of concrete. 

_’And now we’re here,’_ said the spirit. _’I hope it was worth it.’_

“Shut up,” Stiles said. He clenched his eyes shut and leaned against the door. He grasped onto the pen still embedded in his skin and yanked it free. He cried out in pain and clutched his hand tight. The blood running between his fingers was cold. 

_’The way I see it there are only three ways left to proceed. You can stay here and get caught. Chris will most certainly kill you for shooting his partner and all the damage you’ve caused._

_The second option is to let me back in. Let me in and I will take care of everything. Eventually, you will fade into our subconscious but you will still be there. It won’t be painful, and if you surrender now I’ll leave your friends alone.’_

“What’s my third choice?” Stiles asked.

_’You can jump. You will die. I will live. Then I will spend the remainder of my time tracking down every person in this town you care about and gutting them. I will smile while I do it.’_

Stiles swallowed back a sob half of pain and half of fear. That was it. There were no options left. Death by the spirit, or death by Chris. He pushed away from the door and stepped onto the ledge of the rooftop. 

_’That is a bad choice,’_ the spirit said. _’Think about what you’re doing.’_

“You keep saying you don’t care if I die, but you’ve been trying pretty hard to prevent my death. I think – I think you don’t want me to die. If something happens to me I’m pretty sure something will happen to you, too.” He wiped the tears from his cheek but more were quick to take their place. 

_’It’s just easier for me this way. I won’t have to waste energy repairing broken bones and inflating punctured lungs.’_

“You’re lying,” Stiles said. “All you’ve done is lie.” He looked down at the parking lot below him. He took a deep breath and steeled his nerves. 

The rooftop door swung open with a loud, rusted howl. 

A man stood in front of it. It took a moment for Stiles to recognize him as the same man who’d picked little pieces of rock from his foot in a dark, cold basement. 

“Don’t!” the man said. He came forward with a hand outstretched. “Wait, please!” 

Stiles took a step back. The heel of his foot hung off the ledge. “Stay away from me,” he said. “I’ll hurt you.” He clutched the pen tight in his hand. 

“No, you won’t,” said the man. “Your name is Stiles, right? My name is Derek. I want to help you.” The hand he held out was too far for Stiles to reach. 

Stiles shook his head. “I will. There’s nothing – I can’t fight him anymore, Derek. He’s going to win unless I do this.” 

“No, that’s not true. My uncles can help you. You don’t have to do this alone.” 

Stiles lips trembled. “Peter’s dead.” 

“No, he’s not,” said Derek. “He’s wounded but he’s not dead.” 

“I shot him. I shot him like three times.” 

“I know, but he’s okay and _you_ didn’t shoot anyone. That thing inside of you did. You didn’t do any of this.” Derek took another step closer. 

“I don’t know if I trust you, Derek. I don’t know if I trust anyone.” 

“That’s okay,” said Derek. “I promise, Peter is fine. He’s on his way here now. He’ll-“ 

Stiles’ heart stammered. “He’ll shoot me.” 

“That’s the last thing anyone wants. I swear, Stiles. If my uncles wanted to kill you they would have already done that. You were unconscious with me for twenty minutes and nobody touched a hair on your head, did they?” 

Stiles nodded and wiped his eyes on the back of his sleeve. More tears replaced the ones he’d swept away. 

“The lichen helped, didn’t it? There are ways to make the Nogitsune go away. I just need you to come down here.”

“Nogitsune?” Stiles repeated. “That’s what it is?” 

“Yes,” Derek nodded. “It’s a Nogitsune. They feed off fear and chaos.”

“You can help? You can get rid of it?” 

“Yes. I just need you to come down here.” Derek stepped forward until he was within arm’s reach. He held out his hand again. 

Stiles bit his lip and took his hand. 

Derek smiled and stepped back, letting Stiles come down off the ledge himself. Then he pulled Stiles into the warmest, tightest hug he’d ever received. Stiles was crushed between his torso and his muscled arms. 

The hand holding his pen gripped it tight and stabbed it straight through Derek’s abdomen. 

Derek grunted and hugged him tighter. 

“No!” Stiles gasped. He struggled and pushed away, he fought with all his might to escape Derek’s hold but the man didn’t budge even for a second. 

“It’s okay,” Derek said. “It’s okay. I’m fine.” He grunted and wrestled Stiles back towards the doorway. 

“Derek!” a familiar voice said, but Stiles was too frantic to place it.

“No! Let me go!” 

_’He can’t help you! None of them can!’_

“Derek! Please, let me go!” 

“Bite him!” Derek snapped. “Bite him, now!” 

A sharp pain went through Stiles’s neck. Hot breath brushed over his jugular as a row of sharp teeth sank into his skin. 

The spirit inside of him screamed and writhed. 

Stiles cringed. He felt a painful burrowing in his ear like an insect. 

“There it is,” said a voice that sounded like Chris. “Hold him still so I can grab it.” 

“I’m trying,” grunted Derek. 

A few seconds later and Stiles’s world went dark.

⋯⊶⋯⊷⋯

It was only when a nurse pried Stiles’s body from Derek’s arms that he finally let go. They put him in a hospital room and took his temperature, checked his pulse, and finally came to the diagnosis of ‘acute insomnia.’

Derek almost wanted to laugh. It was such a normal, innocuous diagnosis. The bite mark on Stiles’s neck had already faded to a light pink scar that wouldn’t last more than a few days. His breathing was slow and steady though it hitched up every once in a while. Aside from that and a few finger twitches he remained completely limp. 

Danny and the nurse who attacked Derek on his way up the stairs were recovering well. He felt bad for smashing their heads into a wall but he would have felt even worse if he’d lost a life because he couldn’t get there in time. He supposed they could deal with a few bruises and a minor concussion. 

The housefly that had been the Nogitsune was bundled up and placed inside a box of mountain ash. Chris only barely managed to catch it as it flew out of Stiles’ ear in a desperate bid to escape.

“He still hasn’t moved,” Derek said. 

“He’s been through a lot. Let him have his rest,” said Chris. In his hand he held a small cup of coffee he’d taken from one of the machines outside. It was pure black but he didn’t seem to mind as he took another gulp. His eyes were washed out and his shoulders sagged. 

“We all need rest,” agreed Peter. “More than that I want some food. Doesn’t this place have anything other than vending machine pretzels?” 

“There’s a cafeteria downstairs if you really want something.” 

“Like salmonella? No thank you.” 

“You’re not going to get salmonella from a hospital cafeteria.” 

“Fine, E. Coli, whatever.” 

“Well then it’s good they can treat you on the spot.”

“I want steak and eggs,” Peter grumbled as he slunk lower in his chair like a petulant child. 

“Why don’t you go get some? To be honest I could do without the bitching.”

“I was shot multiple times in the chest today, Christopher. I think I’ve earned the right to a little bitching.”

“You’d bitch even if you hadn’t.” Chris hid his smile behind Styrofoam coffee cup. 

Derek’s stomach grumbled as he listened to them talk. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten and racing up several flights of stairs took more out of him then he realized. “Bring me some.”

“Why don’t you go with him?” Chris asked. “I can stay here and watch Stiles while you go get something to eat.” 

“If you come I have an excuse to order extra fries, so why not? Feel like some celebratory diner food, Derek?” Peter asked. He stood up and stretched his arms above his head with a grunt. Chris’s jacket lifted a little above his belly to reveal the spot where one of the bullets had been embedded only a few short hours ago, only a small red dot remained. 

“What if something happens? What if he wakes up and he’s not the right person?” 

“If that happens I’ve got enough lichen to drown him with,” Chris said. “Go get food with your uncle.” 

Derek reluctantly peeled his eyes away from Stiles’s face. He touched the back of his palm for just a moment, just to reassure himself the warmth was really returning to his skin.

“Fine,” he said. He dug around in his pockets for the Tahoe’s keys. When he held them out Peter just shook his head. 

“No thanks,” said Peter. “I should probably return the car to deputy Parrish when we’re finished.” 

“You stole someone’s car?” 

“After he tried to kill us I think he can spare a car. C’mon, let’s see how fast those cruisers can go,” Peter said with a wink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stiles considers jumping off the roof of the hospital to get rid of the Nogitsune but is stopped before he can do anything. Derek talks him down. 
> 
> As always, if you liked please leave a comment thank you n.n


	11. Chapter 11

Peter loved Derek's shift, but he hated looking at it. The little black wolf filled his heart with warmth but the scars filled his mouth with a tar-like taste. The wounds should have healed years ago. Derek said they didn’t hurt, but Peter wasn’t sure he believed it. He reached a hand down and stroked Derek’s soft ears back. 

Derek’s blue eyes shined as he tilted up his muzzle for a scratch under the chin. His tail twitched uneasily even as he pressed against Peter’s hand. 

“I know,” said Peter as he obligingly scratched his fingers at the little white patch under Derek’s jaw. “They won’t touch you. Trust me.”

He stood up and turned to the Ikeda’s guards. They watched him with suspicion and reverence. Their eyes lingered on Derek but never made eye contact with him. 

Peter shifted the box containing the Nogitsune under his arm. It was made from an old Rowan tree and carved with intricate patterns that must have taken weeks. Peter wore gloves when he touched it as the surface agitated his skin. It didn’t burn, not quite, but it was just as unsettling as hearing the buzz of the fly’s wings as it flitted about inside the jar that contained him beneath the mountain ash. 

The guards were silent as they opened the doors and led him and Derek down empty halls. 

Derek held his head high but walked with his shoulder pressing into Peter’s thigh. 

The atrium was just the same as Peter remembered it, only this time there were more men lining the walls then there had been before. Only a scant handful were dressed the same as the guards guiding them. 

Ikeda sat on the sofa with a cigarette in one hand, while the other rested on Yuki’s flank. The white wolf lifted its head from the red pillow it laid upon and stared at Derek. 

“You are not Christopher Argent,” Ikeda said. “Who are you?” His eyes caught on Derek and fixated. 

“I am Peter Hale. Christopher Argent is my husband.”

Ikeda stood up from the sofa and snuffed his cigarette out on the table. He approached them slowly and crouched down in front of Derek.

“This is not the same wolf you had before,” said Ikeda. “How many are there?” 

“Enough,” said Peter.

Ikeda held out his hand to Derek. 

Derek leaned closer. The tip of his nose pressed to Ikeda’s fingertips. Then he pulled away. 

“May I touch him?” Ikeda asked. 

“No.” Peter put his hand on Derek’s nape. 

Ikeda’s eyes flicked up to him. “No?” 

“No.” 

Ikeda withdrew his hand. 

“Very well. I’m not one to tempt such creatures. Tell me, what is it that you’ve brought into my home?” he indicated the box Peter held. 

“What you asked for. The Nogitsune.” 

Ikeda barked a laugh. 

“The Nogitsune is in that little box? You expect me to believe it could be contained so easily?” 

“Open it if you don’t believe me. I won’t be responsible for what happens.” He held the box out for Ikeda to take. 

Ikeda said something to the men in a different language. He jerked his head towards the box. 

His men tensed but none moved more than a few inches closer. Some shook their heads. 

“Superstitious fools,” snapped Ikeda. He rolled his eyes and touched the box. 

Peter didn’t miss the way his hands shook when he lifted it into his hands.

“It’s heavy,” Ikeda commented. 

“It’s filled with mountain ash.” 

“So that is what protects you. I thought wolves were averse to such things?” He looked to Derek and then back to Peter. 

“Only when it’s aimed at us.” 

Ikeda’s mouth twitched into a smile. “You say ‘us’ as though you are one of them.” 

Peter didn’t respond. 

“I’ve heard stories about your family, _Hale_ ,” Ikeda continued. “It’s an old name. If my memory serves correct, your sister-“ 

“My sister has nothing to do with this agreement,” said Peter. 

Beside him, Derek tensed. His ears dropped flat against his skull. His muzzle curled up to reveal his pointed teeth. 

Peter dug his hands into Derek’s bristling fur. 

“I understand,” said Ikeda. “You have done me a great favor so allow me to do one for you – if what I know is true then you should seek to reclaim what was once yours. There is no honor in hiding in the shadows.” 

“Maybe not,” said Peter, “but there’s dignity in surviving.” 

“If that’s what you will call it,” said Ikeda. “The hills and forests should be alive with the sounds of howls.” 

“It’ll have to make due with something else.” Peter gave Derek’s nape a light squeeze before he let go. “We’ll be going now.” 

Ikeda nodded. “Thank you again. You’ve done my family a great service.” 

“You know this one isn’t the same as the one your father died with.” 

“I am aware of that fact. Now the scores are even. The Nogitsune took one from us, and we took one from them. Things are back in balance now.”

“What do you plan on doing with it?” 

“Burning it,” Ikeda spat. “All evil things deserve to be burnt, don’t you agree?” 

Derek’s shoulder pressed into Peter. He felt a low rumble through Derek’s body. 

“It’s not always easy to tell what’s evil and what’s misunderstanding,” Peter said, “but that thing deserves to die.”

⋯⊶⋯⊷⋯

The little bell rang above the diner’s door. Stiles stood there, with his hand hovering on the handle and his eyes wide like a deer’s. A few patrons turned to look at him, but unimpressed they turned away.

Despite everything that happened, outside its walls the diner remained exactly the same as it had been before. The Wendigo ate his undercooked steak, the ghoul woman dripped her intangible waters onto the floor, and the eerie noises coming from the bathroom still sent a chill up Chris’s spine. 

Chris beckoned Stiles over to his table, after checking to make sure his stun baton was out of sight. He couldn’t bring himself to leave it in the car but Peter was right, if Stiles saw it their chances of a peaceful talk would be shot. Like the deer he personified he’d go dashing back out into the night.

Stiles gave him a flickering smile as he approached. He came forward cautiously with one hand on his arm and slid into the booth. Three days had done wonders to rid the traces of the Nogitsune’s possession from his weary face. The bags under his eyes were all that remained of the spirit’s dark, dead gaze. When he blinked his eyes stayed shut for half a second longer than they should have, Chris wondered if it weren’t from a lack of sleep. 

“Hey,” he said. 

“Hey yourself,” said Chris. He pushed a glass of water to Stiles’s side of the table. 

Stiles looked at it but he didn’t touch it. “Thanks.” He turned to look over his shoulder. His eyes caught on the host behind the podium and, more specifically, his cloven feet. His brows furrowed. “What is this place?” he asked slowly. “I mean I know it’s a diner, but what _is_ this place?”

“It’s a way station. A place where supernatural creatures, and those aware of them, can come and be at peace.” 

“Why a diner?” 

Chris smiled slightly. “Because whoever looked out of place in a diner? You ever crawl into one early in the morning looking like you should’ve been dead?” 

Stiles looked back at him and pursed his lips. “More often than I’d like to admit. Lydia works here, doesn’t she? Is she going to be here?” 

“Not today, no. It’s a school night.” 

“Oh. That makes sense.” 

“Is it a problem?” Chris raised a brow. 

Stiles’ fingers tapped along the tabletop. “To be honest I’m still not quite convinced this won’t end with me dead in a dumpster at the end of the night.” 

Chris smiled. The healthy dose of suspicion was nice to see coming from a teenager. He wished Allison had some. 

“If I were going to kill you I wouldn’t bother feeding you first. I’d just do it.” 

Stiles laughed. “Good to know. I feel so much better now.” 

A woman wearing an apron approached them. Her dark hair fell over her shoulders in spirals that almost masked the tiny horns on the side of her head just above her temples. 

“Do you know what you want to order?” she asked with a bright smile. 

“I haven’t seen a menu?” Stiles pointed out with a small frown. 

“They don’t have one,” said Chris. “If you want something they can make it. I recommend the pie.” 

“Pie it is then,” said Stiles.

“What kind of pie?” asked the waitress. 

“Uh, cherry?” 

“And for you?” the waitress turned to Chris. 

“Apple, thank you.” 

“I’ll be back with it,” said the waitress as she walked off. Her hooves clacked as she walked along the tiled floors. 

“That girl had horns,” Stiles said as she walked away. “She has _hooves_.”

“Yes,” said Chris. “It’s rude to stare.” 

Stiles’ eyes flickered back and forth between the woman and Chris. “Derek told me about werewolves, he didn’t say there were people with hooves too.” 

“You talked to Derek?” Chris raised a brow. 

“Yeah, he came to visit me in the hospital. Was he not supposed to?”

“No. It’s fine. He’s not usually so social.” 

“I wouldn’t call it social,” Stiles shrugged. “He mostly just stood there and stared at me, but he asked if I was okay so there’s that.”

“We all want to know how you’re doing.” 

“Fine, I guess. I feel – I feel bad about what happened. I’m sorry, by the way. For shooting your husband and stabbing your nephew and all that,” Stiles averted his eyes and dropped his hands into his lap. “I’m really, really sorry.” 

“You didn’t mean to hurt them and that’s leaps better than most,” said Chris with a bitter smile. 

“Maybe,” Stiles agreed, “but that doesn’t make me feel any better.” 

“We’re all fine, Stiles.” Even without the nose of a wolf he could feel the nervousness rolling off Stiles’s body in droves. “Don’t stress yourself out over it. The first time I met Peter I shot him too, and I wasn’t even possessed. Gun shots are basically the same as hello for him now.” 

Stiles looked up. “You shot him? Why?” 

“It’s a long story.” Chris reached for his water and took a sip. “But I need to ask you something, now that we’re on the subject.” 

“Okay,” said Stiles. 

“What happened to the gun?” 

Stiles bit his lip. “Buried it in the Whittemore’s back yard. I’d try to get it back but I don’t ever want to see it again, and even if I did there’s no way in hell they’re letting me back into the house after the stories Jackson told. They’ve got some place, Eichen House, lined up for me and-“ 

“Eichen House? You’re not going to Eichen House,” Chris said. He’d talked to the Whittemore’s when they came to check on Stiles at the hospital. He knew they weren’t great parents, judging by the way their son treated the town like his playground and the father had that look like somebody owed him something. If he knew they were capable of sentencing a teenager to an asylum he would have turned them away at the door and taken Stiles home with them then and there. 

“I don’t really think I have a choice here. They think I’m deranged. ‘Mad with grief.’” Stiles fidgeted with the fork in his hand. 

“I don’t care what they think. You’re not going. I know several deputies who’d love to do you a favor and I have a lawyer who owes me one too. It’s not like they’ll be begging to keep you.” 

“Then where will I go?” Stiles furrowed his brow.

“You can come with us,” said Chris. “I was going to wait until later to suggest this, but if you need a place to stay Peter and I have room. It’s a big house and with Allison gone it could use another person.” 

“You’re serious?” Stiles quirked his brows. “You’d let me move in with you? Even after I – After what happened?” 

“Like I said, gunshots are a hello to Peter. Allison says you’re a good kid and I trust her judgement.” 

“Will Derek be there?”

“No,” said Chris. “He lives on his own. If it’d make you feel more comfortable we could ask him to stay over a few nights?” He wished Peter were there. Peter was better at understanding emotions, even if most days he chose to ignore them. He’d gotten too used to relying on his wolf’s nose. 

“That’s okay,” said Stiles. “That – I think I would like that. If you’re sure it’s okay.” 

“It is,” said Chris. “Peter and I already talked about it. We didn’t want to overwhelm you with it.” 

“Where is Peter now?” 

“He’s taking care of some things but he’ll be back later tonight.” 

Stiles nodded. “Can I ask you a question?” 

“Of course.” 

“So … When he turns into a werewolf …” Stiles hesitated. 

“It’s alright. I’ve gotten all the questions before,” Chris smiled. 

“Does he sprout a furry tail, or does he just do the full wolf thing? I asked Derek but he just stared at me and made a face.” 

Chris paused. Perhaps he hadn’t gotten all the questions before. 

“It’s more like a nub, actually,” he said. “He can do the full wolf thing too when he feels like it, but good luck getting him back once he’s fully shifted.” 

Stiles drunk in his answer like water. 

“Eat your pie and then we can talk,” Chris nudged the plate closer to Stiles. 

“Oh, right,” Stiles looked back down at it, seemingly disinterested in his desert. 

Stiles wasn’t Allison, but already Chris felt a small soft spot growing in his heart for him and if he could Derek to come out of his shell, even enough to visit a hospital, then he would be a welcome addition to their little patchwork family.

⋯⊶⋯⊷⋯

On the other side of town Jackson sat in his bedroom. His phone sat beside him. Missed calls and unanswered texts from Lydia filled his inbox. When he closed his eyes Stiles’ deadened face stared back at him. His corpse-like visage tainted his dreams and turned his thoughts into nightmares. When he blinked he saw Stiles’s pure black eyes staring up at him from the asphalt, his pale face streaked with the blood that poured from his ears. His mouth had been open and gaping until Danny slapped him.

Danny called it a drug overdose but Jackson wasn’t that dull. He knew blood from the ears meant death. It meant an issue with the brain. He’d been certain that Stiles was going to die. 

But Stiles hadn’t. 

He turned the gun over in his hands. It had been meticulously cleaned of the dirt and remnants that clung to it when he recovered it from the yard. Stiles had tried so hard to hide it, but Jackson was too smart for him. 

He ran his fingers down the barrel. 

Stiles was a monster. His parents would put him in an asylum but if even death couldn’t take him from the world than concrete walls and metal bars would do no better. He would break free and he would be back for them. 

He’d even effected Danny. He said he didn’t remember that night, he must have been on something too but Jackson had seen the way his eyes went dark and his pupils dilated to an extreme.

There was something wrong with Beacon Hills, and Jackson was going to get rid of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo! Last chapter. Thanks everyone for sticking with it, if you liked it please leave a comment below <3 
> 
> There is going to be a sequel to this fic with a lot more sterek and petopher, so if you want to see that please subscribe to the series (or the fic when I post it) I'll try to get the first chapter of that fic out either Monday or Tuesday next week. You can also come talk to me on tumblr [here.](http://triscuitsandsoup.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Thanks again for reading everybody n.n


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